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HARPER’S LIBRARY OF SELECT NOVELS. 

Hailing Notice. — IIabpeb & Beotueks vnllsend their Books by Mail^ postage free, to any part 0/ the United 

States, on receipt of the Price. 


PRICE 


1. Pelham. By Bulwer $0 75 

2. The Disowned. By Bulwer 75 

3. Devereux. By Bulwer 50 

4. Paul Clifford. By Bulwer 50 

5. Eugene Aram. By Bulwer 50 

6. The Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer 50 

7. The Czarina. By Mrs. Holland 50 

8. Rienzi. By Bulwer 75 

9. Self-Devotion. By Miss Campbell 50 

10. The Nabob at Home 50 

11. Ernest Maltravers. By Bulwer 50 

12. Alice; or, The Mysteries. By Bulwer 50 

13. The Last of the Barons. By Bulwer 1 00 

14. Forest Days. By James 50 

15. Adam Brown, the ilerchant. By H. Smith ... 50 

IG. Pilgrims of the Rhine. By Bulwer 25 

17. The Home. By Miss Bremer 50 

IS. The Lost Ship. By Captain Neale 75 

19. The False Heir. By James 50 

20. The Neighbors. By Miss Bremer 50 

21. Nina. By Miss Bremer *. 50 

22. The President’s Daughters. By Miss Bremer. . 25 

23. The Banker’s Wife. By Mrs. Core 50 

24. The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore 25 

25. New Sketches of Every-day Life. By Miss Bremer ■ 50 

2G. Arabella Stuart. By James 50 

27. The Grumbler. By Miss Pickering 50 

2S. The Unloved One. By Mrs. Hofland 50 

29. Jack of the Mill. By William Howitt 25 

30. The Heretic. By Lajetchnikoflf 50 

31. The Jew. By Spindler 75 

32. Arthur. By Sue 75 

33. Chatsworth. By Ward 50 

34. The Prairie Bird. By C. A. MuiTay 1 00 

35. Amy Herbert. By Miss Sewell 50, 

30. Rose d’Albret. By James 50 

37. The Triumphs of Time. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

38. The H Family. By Miss Bremer 50 

39. The Grandfather. By Miss Pickering 50 

40. Arrah Neil. By James 50 

41. The Jilt 50 

42. Tales from the German 50 

43. Arthur Arundel. By H. Smith 50 

44. Agincourt. By James 50 

45. The Regent’s Daughter 50 

46. The Maid of Honor '. . . . 50 

47. Safia. By De Beauvoir 50 

48. Look to the End. By Mrs. Ellis 50 

49. The Improvisatore. By Andersen 50 

50. The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs. Grey 50 

51. Veronica. By Zschokke 50 

52. Zoe. By Miss Jewsbury 50 

53. Wyoming 50 

64. De Rohan. By Sue 50 

55. Self. By the Author of “ Cecil” 75 

50 The Smuggler. By James 75 

57. The Breach of Promise 50 

58. X'arsonage of Mora. By Miss Bremer 25 

69, A Chance Medley. By T. C. Grattan 50 

60. The White Slave 1 00 

61. The Bosom Friend. By Mrs. Grey 50 

62. Amaury. By Dumas 50 

03. The Author’s Daughter. By Mary Howitt 25 

64. Only a Fiddler, &c. By Andersen 50 

65. The Whiteboy. By Mrs. Hall 50 

66. The Foster-Brother. Editedby Leigh Hunt. .. 50 

67. Love and Mesmerism. By H. Smith 75 

68. Ascanio. By Dumas 75 

69. Lady of Milan. Edited by Mrs. Thomson 75 

70. The Citizen of Prague 1 00 

71. The Royal Favorite. By Mrs. Gore 50 

72. The Queen of Denmark. By Mrs. Gore 50 

73. The Elves, &c. By Tieck 50 

74. 75. The Stepmother. By James 1 25 

76. Jessie’s Flirtations 50 

77. Chevalier d’Harmental. By Dumas 50 

78. Peers and Parvenus. By Mrs. Gore 50 

79. The Commander of Malta. By Sue 50 

80. The Female Mmistcr 50 

81. Emilia AVjmdham. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

82. The Bush-Ranger. By Charles Roweroft 50 

83. The Chronicles of Clovernook 25 

84. Genevieve. By Lamartine 25 

S5. Livonian Tales 25 

86. Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh 25 

87. Father Darcy. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

88. Leohtine. By Mrs. Maberly 50 

89. Heidelberg. By James 50 

90. Lucretia. By Bulwer 75 

91. Beauchamp. By James 75 

92. 04. i'ortescue. By Knowles 1 00 

83. Daniel Dennison, etc. By Mrs. Ilofiand- 50 


PRICE 

95. Cinq-Mars. By De Vigny $0 50 

96. Woman’s Trials. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 75 

97. The Castle of Ehrenstein. By James 5 ) 

98. Marriage. By Miss S. Ferrier 50 

99. Roland Cashel. By Lever 1 25 

100. The Martins of Cro’ Martin. By Lever 1 25 

101. Russell. By James .50 

102. A Simple Story. By Mrs. Inchbald 50 

103. Norman’s Bridge. By Mrs. Marsh 50 


104. Alamance 

105. Margaret Graham. By James 

106. The Wayside Cross. By E. H. Milman 

107. The Convict. By James 

108. ISIidsummer Eve. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 

109. Jane Eyre. By Currer Bell 

110. The Last of the Fairies. By James 

111. Sir Theodore Broughton. By James 

112. Self-Control. By Mary Brunton 

113. 114. Harold. By Bulwer 

115. Brothers and Sisters. By Miss Bremer 

116. Gowrie. By James 

117. A Whim and its Consequences, By James... 

118. Three Sisters and Three Fortunes. By G. 11. 

Lewes 

119. The Discipline of Life 

120. Thirty Years Since. By James 

121. Mary Barton. By Mrs. Gaskell. . . , 

122. The Great lloggarty Diamond. By Thackeray 

123. The Forgery. By James 

124. The Midniglit Sun. By Miss Bremer 

125. 126. The Caxtons. By Bulwer 

127. Mordaunt Hall. By Mrs. Marsh 

128. My Uncle the Curate 

129. The Woodman. By James 

130. The Green Hand. A “ Short Yarn” 

131. Sidonia the Sorceress. By Meinhold 

132. Shirley. By Currer Bell 

133. The Ogilvies. By Miss Mulock 

134. Constance Lyndsay. By G, C- H 

135. Sir Edward Graham. By Miss Sinclair 

1.36. Hands not Hearts. By Sliss Wilkinson 

137. The Wilmingtons. By Mrs. Marsh 

138. Ned Allen. By D. Hannay 

139. Night and Morning. By Bulwer 

140. The Maid of Orleans 

141. Antonina, By Wilkie Collins 

142. Zanoni. By Bulwer 

143. Reginald Hastings. By Warburton 

144. Pride and Irresolution 

145. The Old Oak Chest. By James 

146. Julia Howard. By Mrs. Martin Bell 

147. Adelaide Lindsay. Edited by Mrs. Marsh 

148. Petticoat Government. By Mrs. Trollope 

149. The Luttrells. By F. Williams 

150. Singleton Fontenoy, R. N. By Hannay 

151. Olive. By Miss Mulock 

152. Henry Smeaton. By James 

153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Marsh 

154. The Commissioner. By James 

155. The Wife’s Sister. By ilrs. Hubback 

156. The Gold Worshipers 

157. The Daughter of Night. By Fullom 

158. Stuart of Dunleath. By Hon. Caroline Norton 

159. Arthur Conway. By Captain E. H, Milman. . 

160. The Fate. By James 

161. The Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. Maberly. . 

162. Aims and Obstacles. By James 

163. The Tutor’s Ward 

164. Florence Sackville, By Mrs. Burbury 

165. Ravenscliffe. By Mrs. Marsh 

166. M aurice Tiernay. By Lever 

167. The Head of the Family. By Miss Mulock, . . 

168. Darien. ByW’arburton 

169. Falkenburg 

170. The Daltons. By Lever 

171. Ivar; or. The Skjuts-Boy. By Miss Carlen . . 

172. Pequinillo. By James 

173. Anna Hammer. By Temme 

174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James 

175. Henry Esmond, By Thackeray 

176. 177. My Novel. By Bulwer 

178. Katie Stewart, By Mrs. Oliphant 

179. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 

ISO, Agnes Sorel. By James 

181. Agatha’s Husband. By Miss Mulock 

182. Villette. By Currer Bell 

183. Lover’s Stratagem. By Miss Carlen 

184. Clouded Happiness. By Countess D’Orsay. . . 

185. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 

186. Lady Lee’s Widowhood 

187. The Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever 

iSS, Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 


50 
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75 
25 
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75 
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50 
75 
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1 50 
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75 
50 
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75 


2 


Harper^ s Library of Select Novels. 


189. Quiet Heart, By Mrs, Oliphant $0 25 

190. Aubrey, By Mrs. Marsh 75 

191. Ticonderoga. By James 50 

193. Hard Times. By Dickens 50 

193. ^ The Young Husband, By Mrs. Grey 50 

194. * The Mother’s Recompense. By Grace Aguilar. 75 

195. Avillion, and other Tales. By Miss Mulock. . . 1 25 

196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 

197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Dupuy 50 

19S. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jewsbury 50 

199. The Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. Marsh. . . 50 

200. The Old Dominion. By James 50 

201. John Halifax. By Miss Mulock 75 

202. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

203. Fortunes of Glen core. By Lever 50 

204. Leonora d’ Oreo. By James 50 

205. Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 50 

206. The Rose of Ashurst, By Mrs. Marsh 50 

207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

20S. Scenes of Clerical Life, By George Eliot 75 

209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell 25 

210, 211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever 50 

212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock 50 

213. Sword and Gown. By Geo. Lawrence 25 

214. Misrepresentation. By Anna H. Drury 1 00 

215. The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 75 

216. One of Them. By Lever 75 

217. A Day’s Ride. By Lever 50 

21S. Notice to Quit. By Wills 50 

219. A Strange Story. By Bulwer 1 00 

220. The Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson. 

By Anthony Trollope 50 

221. Abel Drake’s Wife. By John Saunders 75 

222. Olive Blake’s Good Work. By Jeaffreson. . . . 75 

223. The Professor's Lady 25 

224. Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock 50 

225. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon 75 

226. Barrington. By Lever 75 

227. Sylvia’s Lovers. By Mrs. Gaskell 75 

228. A First Friendship 50 

229. A Dark Night’s Work. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 

230. Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt 25 

231. St. Olave’s 76 

232. A Point of Honor 50 

233. Live it Down. By Jeaffreson 1 00 

234. Martin Pole. By Saunders 50 

235. Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Emily Ponsonby. . . 50 

236. Eleanor’s Victory, By Ml E. Braddon 75 

237. Rachel Ray. By Trollope 50 

238. John Mardhraont’s Legacy. By M. E. Braddon. 75 

239. Annis Warleigh’s Fortunes. By Holme Lee. . 75 

240. The Wife’s Evidence, By Wills 50 

241. Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. Edwards. . . 75 

242. Cousin Phillis. By Mrs. Gaskell 25 

243. What will he do with It ? By Bulwer 1 50 

244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. Edwards . . 50 

245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray 50 

246. Maurice Dering. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

247. Margaret Denzil’s History 75 

24S. Quite Alone. By George Augustus Sala 75 

249. Mattie: a Stray 75 

250. My Brother’s Wife. By Amelia B. Edwards. . 50 

251. Uncle Silas. By J. S. Le Fanu 75 

252. Lovel the Widower. By Thackeray 25 

253. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trollope 50 

254. On Guard. By Annie Thomas 50 

255. Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 50 

256. Denis Donne. By Annie Thomas 50 

257. Belial 50 

253. Carry’s Confession. By the Author of Mat- 

tie : a Stray” 75 

259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. Edwards 50 

260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Edwards .... 50 

261. Guy Deverell. By J. S. Le Fanu 50 

263. Half a Million of Money. By Amelia B. Ed- 
wards 75 

263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony Trollope. ... 50 

264. Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

265. Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas 75 

266. Maxwell Drewitt. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 75 

267. The Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo 75 

268. Miss Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

269. The True History of a Little Ragamuffin 50 

270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of ‘‘A First 

Friendship” 1 00 

271. Sans Merci. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

272. Phemie Keller. By Mrs. J. II. Riddell 50 

273. Land at Last. By Edmund Yates 50 

274. Felix Holt, the Radical. By George Eliot .... 75 

275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saunders 75 

276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu 50 

277. Kissing the Rod. By Edmund Yates 75 

278. The Race for Wealth. By Mm. J, H. Riddell. . 75 

279. Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 75 

280. The Beauclercs, Father .and Son. By Clarke. .50 

281. Sir Brooke Fossbrooke. By Charles Lever .. . 50 

282. Madonna Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 


283. Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Blackmore $0 75 

284. Bernthal, From the German of L, Miihlbach. 50 

285. Rachel’s Secret 75 

286. The Claverings. By Anthony Trollope 50 

287. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss Thackeray. 25 

288. Played Out. By Annie Thomas 75 

289. Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates 50 

290. Sowing the Wind. By Mrs. E. Lynn Linton . . 50 

291. Nora and Archibald Lee 50 

292. R.aymond’s Heroine 50 

293. Mr. Wynyard’s Ward. By Holme Lee 50 

294. Alec Forbes of Howgien. By Mac Donald 75 

295. No Man’s Friend. By F. W. Robinson 75 

296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 50 

297. Caste . : 50 

298. The Curate’s Discipline. By Mrs. Eiloart 50 

299. Circe. By Babington White 50 

300. The Tenants of Malory. By J. S. Le I^anu. . . . 50 

301. Carlyon’s Year. By the Author of “Lost Sir 

Massingberd,” &c 25 

302. The Waterdale Neighbors. By the Author of 

“Paul Massie” 50 

303. Mabel’s Progress. By the Author of “Aunt 

Margaret’s Trouble” 50 

304. Guild Court. By George Mac Donald 50 

305. The Brothers’ Bet. By Emilie Flygare Carlen 25 

306. Playing for High Stakes. By Annie Thomas. . 50 

307. Margaret’s Engagement 50 

308. One of the Family. By the Author of “ Car- 

lyon’s Year” 25 

309. Five Hundred Pounds Reward. By a Barrister 50 

310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Oliphant 37 

311. Charlotte’s Inheritance. By M, E. Braddon . . 50 

312. Jeanie’s Quiet Life. By the Author of “ St. 

Olave’s,” &c 50 

313. Poor Humanity. By F. W. Robinson 50 

314. Brakespeare. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

315. A Lost Name. By J. Sheridan Le Fanu 50 

316. Love or Marriage ? By William Black 50 

317. Dead-Sea Fruit. By M. E. Braddon 50 

318. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 50 

319. The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly. By Lever. 50 

320. Mildred. By Georgiana M. Craik 50 

321. Nature’s Nobleman. By the Author of “Ra- 

chd's Scerst" • « • • • 50 

322. Kathleen. By the Author of “ Raymond’s He- 

roine” 50 

323. That Boy of Norcott’s. By Charles Lever 25 

824. In Silk Attire. By W. Black 50 

325. Hetty. By Henry Kingsley. 25 

326. False Colors. By Annie Thomas 50 

327. Meta’s Faith. By the Author of “ St. Olave’s.” 50 

328. Found Dead. By the Author of “Carlyon’s 

Year” 50 

329. Wrecked in Port. By Edmund Y'ates 50 

330. The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

331. A Beggar on Horseback. By the Author of 

“Carlyon’s Year” 50 

832. Kitty. By the Author of “Doctor Jacob” .... 50 

333. Only Herself. By Annie Thomas 50 

334. Hirell. By John Saunders 50 

335. Under Foot. By Alton Clyde 50 

336. So Runs the World Away. By Mrs. A. C, Steele. 50 

337. Baffled. By Julia Goddard 75 

338. Beneath the Wheels. By the Author of “ Olive 

Varcoe” 50 

339. Stern Necessity. By F. W. Robinson 50 

340. Gwendoline’s Haiwest. By the Author of “ Car- 

lyon’s Year” 25 

341. Kilmeny. By W. Black .50 

342. John: a Love Story. By Mrs. Oliphant 50 

343. True to Herself. By F. W, Robinson 50 

344. V cronica. By the Author of “ Aunt Margaret’s 

Trouble” 50 

345. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author of “ Gil- 

bert Rugge” 50 

346. Estelle Russell 75 

347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author of “ Ray- 

mond’s Heroine” 50 

348. Which is the Heroine ? 50 

349. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer Collins . . 50 

350. In Duty Bound. Illustrated 50 

351. The Warden and Barchester Towers. In 1 vol. 

By Anthony Trollope 75 

352. From Thistles — Grapes? By Mrs. Eiloart. ... 5'l 

353. A Siren. By T. Adolphus Trollope 50 

354. Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite. By 

Anthony Trollope. Illustrated 51 

355. Earl’s Dene: By R. E. Francillon 50 

356. Daisy Nichol. By Lady Hardy 50 

357. Bred in the Bone. By the Author of “ Carly- 

on’s Year” 50 

358. Fenton’s Quest. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. 50 

359. Monarch of Mincing-Lane. By W. Black. Il- 

lustrated ,50 

360. A Life’s Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 50 

361. Anteros. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

362. Her Lord and Master. By Florence Marry at.. 50 


ANNE FURNESS 




THE AUTHOR OF 


“MABEL’S PROGRESS,” “THE SACRISTAN’S HOUSEHOLD,” 
“VERONICA,” &c. 


^ (Tervtan^ 

TFlrs. hciriaes ^\£ 

u ' 



NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 


FRANKLIN SQUARE. 


T2,3 

F\'C\_ 

S. 


By the Author of “Anne Furness.” 

MABEL’S PROGRESS. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

THE SACRISTAN’S HOUSEHOLD. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 
VERONICA. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

ANNE FURNESS. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price. 





By transfer 

Ui S. Soldiers Home Lib. 

SEP 2 8 1937 


ANNE 


FURNESS. 


CHAPTER 1. 

I ALWAYS liked going to my grandfather’s. 
His house had an atmosphere of stillness and 
mystery that was alluring to me. No doubt my 
childish imagination magnified and distorted 
many things there, as the eyes of an infant are 
not able to see objects as we see them with our 
adult vision. Neither mind nor eyes attain their 
just focus at once. 

In my own home, where there were the con- 
stant movement and occupation incident to a 
country house situated on a large and well- 
stocked farm, the servants wondered greatly 
that “Miss Anne” should like going to Mort- 
lands — Mortlands was the name of my grand- 
father’s place ; and I have more than once over- 
heard them opining to each other that it was 
very bad for a child to be moped up in a house 
like that, without a young or cheerful face for 
her eyes to rest on from sunrise to sunset ; and 
a queer lot that lived there, too, by all accounts ! 
Such speeches only aroused a contemptuous re- 
sentment in me. Perhaps, too, they served to 
put Mortlands in a more alluring light than 
ever, by their vague hints of something strange 
about grandfather’s household, which appealed 
to my inborn love of the marvelous. 

My father also found it somewhat singular 
that his little girl should be so fond of staying 
at a dull place where there were no pets or 
play-fellows. But my mother never expressed 
any surprise on the subject. Mother and I had 
a silent sympathy on that, as on many another, 
point of feeling. 

Mortlands was situated on the extreme edge 
of the suburb of a country town in the north of 
England, which I will call Horsingham. Between 
it and the nearest house, going townward, was 
a space we called the Park, which was simply a 
large meadow, bounded by a hedge, with an- 
cient elms growing in it at intervals — trees 
that might have been the veritable “hedge- 
row elms with hillocks green” of L’Allegro. 
In the other direction there was no dwelling 
within two miles of Mortlands. 

The house had once stood on a considerable 
estate belonging to it ; but that was before my 
time, or grandfather’s time either. When he 
first inhabited it, it had long been shorn of its 
territorial glories. The only land still attached 


to it was a large, irregular, rambling garden in- 
closed within high stone walls. 

This garden was my delight. I used to 
spend many long hours in it ; sometimes with 
a story-book, curled up on a moss-grown old 
seat of rustic wood-work ; sometimes wandering 
about the alleys, enacting imaginary scenes with 
imaginary companions. During these hours I 
was mostly alone, and this circumstance had a 
great charm for me. I was left absolutely to 
my own devices, and as I was a child of a very 
active and vivid fancy, my own devices amply 
sufficed, to amuse me. 

I have thought sometimes that to explore 
the long-silent haunts of memory is like pry- 
ing into one of the Etruscan tombs they tell of, 
whose walls were once covered with bright pic- 
tures of the busy life which that solemn, rock- 
hewn chamber shut out forever. 

There are the familiar implements of house- 
hold use — the spent lamp, the earthen pitcher, 
the moulded vase. There,' too, is found the 
tarnished ornament of Beauty, or the diadem 
of Command. There, from the fitfully faded 
paintings on the wall, start out the most fa- 
miliar scenes in strange distinctness ; while, not 
a yard apart, some great event — a king sitting 
in judgment, a battle with chariots and horses, 
or a nuptial ceremony — is barely decipherable. 

The pomps and vanities, the grave alliances, 
the cruel combats — nay, even the solemn sym- 
bols of worship, perish and disappear. Be- 
sides, kings, heroes, gods — all are fading. We 
take our little taper, and step awe-stricken into 
the long-unbroken darkness, and peer and gaze 
— Who was this ? What was that ? Here sits 
a royal figure on his throne, whose courtiers 
have fallen away from him. Yonder are two 
pledging their troth before the priest, and the 
clasp of their outstretched hands is interrupted 
by a crumbling gap, across which a bloated 
spider runs swiftly. But lo! as we shift the 
dimly burning light, some coarse, common scene 
starts into life, and we see the butcher’s sham- 
bles, or the slave grinding corn,^ as vividly as 
the day they were painted ! 

Thus, out of the hazy past, certain days and 
certain things reveal themselves with capricious 
distinctness to my memory. For example, I 
was accustomed to be at Mortlands in all sea- 
sons of the year ; yet the place is indissolubly 



6 


ANNE FURNESS. 


associated in my mind with a soft, gray, au- 
tumnal sky, the smell of fallen leaves, and the 
faint chime of church bells wafted from a dis- 
tance through the moist air. 

My grandfather was called Dr. Hewson ; my 
mother was his only surviving child out of a 
numerous family ; and his wife had been dead 
many years before I was born. He was con- 
sidered a very skillful physician, and had a 
large practice in Horsingham. He had the 
reputation of being very eccentric ; and the 
household at Mortlands was considered “odd” 
and “out of the way.” 

The accusation of eccentricity was chiefly 
founded, I believe, on grandfather’s withdraw- 
al from society. He lived a very retired life. 
Except in his quality of doctor, the Horsing- 
ham world knew almost nothing of him. Now, 
when a man plainly evinces a distaste for our 
company, it is a strong presumption of some 
twist in his mind, or even, it may be, of some 
cloud on his conscience, since it is evident to 
us all that our company must be agreeable to 
sane and respectable persons. Thus reasoned 
Horsingham, at all events. 

To the second count — that of “oddness” in 
his household — I believe grandfather would 
have had to plead guilty. The inmates of his 
house consisted, besides himself, of two female 
servants, and a person whom he always ad- 
dressed as “Judith,” but who was known to 
the rest of the world as Mrs. Abram. She 
was the widow of a long-deceased younger 
brother of my grandfather; and her proper 
style and title was, therefore, Mrs. Abram 
Hewson. But no one ever called her so. She 
was utterly dependent on grandfather. Her 
husband had ill-treated her during his life, and 
— having wasted her little fortune — left her 
destitute at his death. Grandfather gave her 
a home in his house. It was an act of disin- 
terested benevolence, for Mrs. Abram could 
not be called an agreeable inmate. She was 
subject to fits of gloomy depression on account 
of her religious views ; and I believe that she 
had at one time been so terrified by a zealous 
preacher that her mind became disordered. I 
remember, as a child, hearing from some of the 
servants at home that Mrs. Abram had been 
“in an asylum.” And although the phrase 
conveyed no very definite idea to my mind at 
the time, it served to invest her with a weird 
interest. 

She was of so singular an aspect as made it 
diflScult to guess at her age. Her face was of 
a dull brick-red color all over. Her skin was 
singularly coarse. Once, when I was little, 
some one showed me the palm of my own 
hand through a microscope, and I have ever 
since associated Mrs. Abram’s complexion with 
that scientific experiment. 

She had a high Roman nose with a hump on 
the bridge of it, a high narrow forehead, very 
scanty eyebrows and eyelashes, and brown eyes, 
with queer yellow specks in them, which always 
reminded me of the coat of a tortoise-shell cat. 


Her hair had been cut short, she said, and was 
entirely concealed by a black net cap lined with 
brown silk, save two loops on the temples — 
flat festoons of hay-colored hair, whereof no 
man saw either the beginning or the end. 
She always was dressed in black, and I never 
saw any point of brightness about her person, 
but the casual glitter of her worn wedding ring. 

Perhaps the strangest peculiarity about Mrs. 
Abram was her voice. It was a muffled, in- 
ward voice, whose tone I vaguely connected in 
my mind with the lump on the bridge of her 
nose. When she spoke she dropped her lower 
jaw and kept her mouth half open, moving the 
lips very little, so that her articulation was in- 
distinct. Also, one effect which her conversa- 
tion had on my nervous system was an over- 
powering desire to make her clear her throat, 
and in default of daring to suggest such an 
operation to her, I was driven to clear my own, 
convulsively. 

Poor Mrs. Abram! She was always very 
kind to me, and I believe she was sincerely 
grateful and attached to grandfather, and had 
a high respect for him ; but that did not pre- 
vent her from being very despondent about his 
spiritual condition. 

Then there was Keturah, grandfather’s cook, 
housekeeper, and factotum. She was a wo- 
man of remarkably low stature, with a large 
dwarfish head, and short arms like the flappers 
of a seal. Her face was very pale, almost livid, 
with bright dark eyes, deeply sunken, and strong 
black eyebrows, and black hair. Her feat- 
ures, though disproportionately massive for her 
height, were not ugly. And when she smiled 
her face became transfigured into something 
that, if it were not beauty, affected me with a 
charm like that of beauty. But then Keturah 
very rarely smiled. 

The other servant, Eliza, was a staid young 
woman, who belonged to an obscure sect of 
dissenters, and employed her leisure in reading 
tracts and hymns. But, unlike Mrs. Abram, 
she was very cheerful and equable in a mild, 
soft way. She had pale reddish hair, and a 
freckled face, and was slightly deaf. My in- 
terest in her was strongly aroused by being told 
that she had been cruelly treated by a step- 
mother, and that her deafness was the conse- 
quence of neglect and ill-usage in childhood. 

Such was the household at Mortlands ; for 
Havilah, the man who groomed grandfather’s 
horse, and did whatever was done in the way 
of cultivating the garden, did not live in the 
house. 

No doubt they w’ere a singular set of people ; 
and no doubt it was not unreasonable that my 
father’s servants should wonder what amuse- 
ment Miss Anne derived from staffing among 
them. 

I loved my grandfather dearly ; but that did 
not altogether explain my delight in Mortlands ; 
for I also loved my parents — especially my mo- 
ther — very thorougldy, and I was treated at 
home with the fondest indulgence. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


I believe the truth to he that Mortlands 
afforded a freer scope than Water-Eardley (my 
father’s house) for the exercise of a faculty that 
is active in most children, and was peculiarly 
so in me — I mean imagination. 

For example, the garden at home was trim, 
bright, and well cultivated, yet I cared nothing 
for it in comparison with Mortlands. I knew 
the former by heart; its red, yellow, or blue 
beds disposed in geometrical patterns, its clipped 
box borders, and smooth gravel paths. No- 
thing was left to the imagination. There were 
no nooks and hiding-places, no moss-grown 
walks, no mouldering walls and pleached bow- 
ers, no tangled thickets of heterogeneous growth 
to be peopled by childish fancies. At Mort- 
lands the very air was thick with dreams. 
They swam in the moted sunbeam, and flut- 
tered about the ivy, and brooded under the soft 
shadow of the sycamore. 

My own home was a comfortable, modern 
country house. My father was a “ gentleman 
farmer.” His w'as chiefly grazing land, and he 
prided himself on his breed of cattle. He was 
fond of horses, too, and he always had a couple 
of hunters in his stable. Some of his friends 
considered this an unwarranted extravagance, 
and were kind enough to suggest (to eacA other, 
which was scarcely quite practical, but much 
safer than suggesting it to my father) that the 
money spent on the hunters had been better em- 
ployed in buying a neat little carriage for Mrs. 
Bell — say one of those new park phaetons — and 
keeping a pair of ponies for her to drive. But 
I believe mother, gentle as she was, would have 
flamed out very angrily at any one who should 
have said such a thing to her. 

My father and mother made a love-match. 
But it was also a quite “proper” match in the 
eyes of the world. In station and fortune they 
were quite suited to each other. He had in- 
herited a flourishing and unencumbered little 
estate ; she was the daughter of a country doc- 
tor, and brought her husband a good dowry. 
She very much desired, I have learned from my 
grandfather, to bestow her little fortune, as she 
bestowed her hand, on her bridegroom uncon- 
ditionally. But grandfather would not hear of 
this; neither would my father. Her money 
was settled on herself, and the arrangements 
of her marriage were utterly devoid of the least 
spice of romance. 

Nevertheless, it was, as I have said, a love- 
match. They must have been a very handsome 
couple. I have heard people say that when they 
paid and received their bridal visits, George 
Furness and his wife looked for all the world 
like a prince and princess in a fairy picture- 
book. 

They had passed out of the picture-book stage 
by the time I can first remember them distinct- 
ly. Father rode nearly a stone heavier than in 
his fairy-prince days, and mother’s cheek had 
less rose-bloom on it ; but they were still most 
delightful to look upon. Indeed, I think that 
my mother must have been more really beauti- 


ful than at the time o*f her marriage ; but per- 
haps most people would not agree with me. 

Grandfather Hewson had handsome, boldly 
cut features — a little stern, perhaps — and mo- 
ther’s face was a softened copy of his. It was to 
his as a cameo is to a marble bust. She had 
beautiful dark eyes, and penciled eyebrows, 
and a quantity of bright chestnut hair that fell 
in tendrilly ringlets on her neck. 

When I was a little child mother and father 
saw a good deal of company, and visited much 
among their country neighbors. I was an only 
child. Two boys had been born after my birth, 
but they both died when infants. Thus, when 
my parents were absent, I had no society at 
home save that of the servants, and to their so- 
ciety I had an intense repugnance. 

I was a dainty child (“ more nice than wise,” 
as my nurse-maid contemptuously expi’essed it), 
and I shrank from our coarse, country-bred serv- 
ants. Their boisterous movements, loud voices, 
and rough hands were disagreeable to me. The 
mingling of shyness and pride with which I re- 
garded the inmates of our kitchen would, had I 
had no refuge from their company, have grown 
into positive hatred. But this tendency to a 
morbid tone of mind was greatly counteracted 
by my visits to Mortlands. At home the serv- 
ants alternately scolded and spoiled me. They 
were, I believe, amused with my little disdain- 
ful airs, as they might have been amused at the 
shrinking of some delicate little animal from 
their rough but not unkindly touch. I had not 
the resource of solitude at will (which would 
have been far less injurious to a character like 
mine), for it would not have been safe to let a 
child of my years wander alone about the farm. 
There were perils by flood and field — the river, 
in which it was possible for me to drown my- 
self, and the meadows full of cattle, into which 
it was not always safe to venture. Then, too, 
our house fronted the great high-road, and was 
separated from it only by a narrow sweep of 
gravel and a hedge. This dustyhighway wound 
along, over hill and dale, from Horsingham all 
the way to London, and at certain seasons of 
the year it was thronged with a miscellaneous 
crowd, including tramps, gipsies, and generally 
disreputable characters, in whose too close 
neighborhood my parents would have trembled 
to trust their little girl. My nurse-maid, there- 
fore, had orders never to let me out of her sight 
when father and mother were away from home. 

Horsingham possesses a fine race-course, and 
was, and is, renowned for a great annual race, 
to which people flock from all parts of England. 
There is a spring meeting, too, but the great 
race is in the autumn. I remember Horsing- 
ham before there was a railway station there, 
and I consequently also remember seeing from 
my nursery window, which looked on to the road, 
the smart mail-coaches, laden with passengers, 
that dashed, with their four horses, toward the 
town at a certain hour every day. And then at 
“ race time” the number and variety of vehicles 
that passed were endless. Water-Eardley wua 


8 


ANNE FURNESS. 


situated about five miles from Horsingbam, and 
four from the race-course, whicli lay between us 
and the town. Mortlands was nearly opposite 
to the race-course. Only from grandfather’s 
house all signs and symptoms of “ The Great 
Autumn Meeting” were jealously excluded. 
Grandfather bated the very name of horse- 
racing, and all connected with it ; and the ear- 
liest occasion when I remember, as a child, to 
have heard sharp words pass between him and 
my father was during a discussion on that sub- 
ject. 

However, Dr. Ilewson and his son-in-law 
were very good friends in general, and father 
was never unwilling to allow me to go to Mort- 
lands, although he might be puzzled by the 
oddity of my taste in wishing to do so. He 
had great faith in grandfather’s medical skill, 
and believed that my health (which was rather 
delicate when I was a little child) was bene- 
fited by Dr. Hewson’s supervision. I doubt 
not he was right in so believing ; but I am sure 
that the health of my mind benefited even more 
than that of my body by being subject to grand- 
father’s influence. But I do not suppose it 
ever occurred to father to conceive that my 
mental condition needed any more subtle treat- 
ment than unlimited indulgence, so long as I 
did not make myself actively troublesome, and 
an occasional wdiipping (performed in a rather 
perfunctory manner) when I became a nuisance 
to my elders. 

In endeavoring to describe the course of my 
uneventful childhood I shall present as faith- 
fully as I can those things which are most 
strongly impressed on my memory, without 
much regard to the relative importance I should 
now attach to them. To revert to my former 
simile, I shall take at random those pictures 
which remain the most vivid in certain long- 
locked chambers of my brain. 

For, although I be not skilled to analyze 
them, I doubt not that the causes w'hich keep 
some memories fresh, while others fade and 
perish, are interwoven Avith the whole fabric of 
my nature. 


CHAPTER II. 

I HAD passed my seventh birthday at home. 
Mother had asked some children to spend the 
evening with me, and Ave had had cake and 
fruit and blind-man’s-buff and magic-lantern. 
All this I knoAv, because it is so set doAvn in 
the chronicles of the family; but real remem- 
brance of these festivities I haA'e none — or a 
very slight one. 

I remember the morning better ; Avhen I 
aAvoke to find a bright red doll’s house, Avith 
green balconies, and a story-book by ray bed- 
side. The doll’s house Avas from father; the 
story-book Avas mother’s gift. I can see the 
book noAV, guiltless of illuminated borders or 
chromo-lithographs, but a treasure to me be- 
yond all price. I could read it fluently. Mo- 


ther had taught me to read Avhen I Avas little 
more than a baby, by throwing bone counters 
on the floor for me to scramble for, on one side 
of Avhich counters Avere tAVO black, portly letters 
of the alphabet (a capital and a small letter), 
and on the other a colored picture of some 
bird, beast, or floAver, Avhose name began Avitli 
the same letter. This, too, is matter of faith 
with me, and not of knowledge ; for although 
I distinctly remember the look of the bone 
counters — one especially, bearing the image of 
a prancing horse, Avith a coat of the color called 
by artists burnt sienna — that is because some 
remnants of this notable company of Avorthies 
lingered on in my nursery until I AA’as at least 
nine or ten years old. I knoAV not hoAv they 
finally disappeared. AVho does knoAV hoAv such 
things finally disappear ? 

At all events I Avas quite able to read my 
birthday book, and I so enjoyed reading it that 
I insisted on carrying it to grandfather’s Avhen 
I Avent to Mortlands on the day after it aa^us 
given to me. 

Father and mother Avere going to spend a 
Aveek Avith an aunt of the former who lived in 
the country, some miles from us, and I Avas to 
stay at Mortlands during their absence. This 
prospect Avas the only thing that could have 
consoled me for mother’s going aAvay. But no 
prospect could make me part from her un- 
moved. Dear mother ! hoAv pretty and grace- 
ful she looked as she stood at the door to AA^atch 
me depart ! I can see her noAv, AAuth her deli- 
cate muslin dress, and a crimson ribbon at her 
throat, and her bright curls falling lightly from 
a high comb that gathered them together at 
the back of her head. But my last glimpse of 
her, as the dog-cart Avhisked round the corner 
of the drive, Avas dimmed by tears. 

“Don’t ye take on, Miss Anne !” said Dodd, 
the groom, Avho Avas driAung, and beside A\diom 
I AA'as perched on some cushions. 

I did not Avish my tears to be observed, and 
I turned my head aside, as if to contemplate the 
landscape, Avhile I took out my little pocket- 
handkerchief to Avipe my eyes. This, hoAvever, 
Avas an operation I coidd not perform unob- 
served, for my handkerchief Avas attached by a 
loop to a ribbon round my Avaist, and I Avell 
remember the difficulties connected Avith the 
using of that square of cambric. 

Selina, my nurse-maid, perceived that I Avas 
bending myself double, and Avas tAvisted all on 
one side ; and, leaning over from the back seat 
Avhere she sat, exclaimed, “What’s she doing? 
Why, Anne ! if she ain’t crying ! Well, I 
Avouldn’t be such a baby!” 

The effect of Avhich sympathizing speech Avas 
to make my tears flow the faster. 

Dodd Avas gruff but good-natured, and, de- 
spite his rough exterior, had more delicate tact 
than buxom, bright-ej’^ed Selina. 

“Come,” said Dodd, “I don’t knovv" AA'hat 
you may think of it, S’lina, but it seems to me 
as a young lady of seven — turned seven year 
old — ain’t exactly a baby! That’s a funny 


ANNE EURNESS. 


9 


idea, ain’t it, Miss Anne ? Turned seven — 
rising eight, as one may say! Lord, S’lina, I 
should have thought as you’d have knowed 
better than that ! ” 

I glanced up at Dodd half distrustfully, but he 
kept his eyes steadily turned away, and flicked 
Ruby (father’s fast-trotting marc) thoughtfully 
with his whip. This sagacious behavior had its 
due effect. I hastily wiped off the last tear with 
the extreme corner of my pocket-handkerchief, 
and prepared to comport myself with the self- 
command which the world evidently expected 
from a person of seven years old. 

But Selina, with characteristic ohtuseness, 
disturbed my returning composure. 

“Ah!” said she; “the idea of crying when 
she’s a-going to her grandfather’s! Such a 
nice place to be at !” 

I perfectly well knew that Selina by no 
means considered it a nice place. I detected 
(or fancied I detected) a tone of ridicule in her 
voice ; and ridicule directed against the in- 
mates of Mortlands always stung me sorely. I 
said nothing, but I felt my cheeks burn, and 
my childish heart beat fast, 

I know not whether it were mere stupid love 
of teasing, or whether Selina really fancied I 
was deceived by her clumsy acting ; but at all 
events she continued to speak of Mortlands in 
the same sneering tone. 

“Oh my. Miss Anne, how pleasant it must 
be there, to be sure ! You always enjoy your- 
self at Mortlands, don’t you ?” 

“Yes,” I answered, sharply; “I do enjoy 
myself there ; but I sha’n’t talk to you about 
it.” 

“ Hoighty, toighty ! Why not, pray ?” 

“ Because you can’t understand things. 
You’re stupid, and I don’t like you.” 

Selina burst into a fit of laughter, which irri- 
tated me the more because I felt it to be gen- 
uine. 

“Noav she’s on the high ropes!” she ex- 
claimed. “ There never was such a faddy lit- 
tle monkey!” 

“Leave her alone,” said Dodd; “what’s 
the good of bothering the child ? It’s nat’ral 
she should love them as loves her. Every 
body ain’t so hard-hearted as you be.” 

Selina had the good-humor of utter insensi- 
bility. She was not in the least put out by this 
speech. It sank into my heart though, and 
from that day forth commenced a new feeling 
in me for Dodd. I was grateful to him with 
a gratitude which those alone can understand 
who, in childhood, have needed and received a 
refreshing word of timely sympathy. It fell 
on my angry spirit like dew on a parched soil. 

I was silent for a while. But the brightness 
of the day, the exhilarating movement of the 
vehicle through the fresh air, and the still more 
exhilarating sense of kindness at hand, soon re- 
stored my cheerfulness. 

During the remainder of the drive I ignored 
Selina as far as possible (I had by no means 
forgiven her), and chatted away with Dodd. I [ 


had already read one or two of the stories in 
my new book, and I talked instructively, as I 
flattered myself, retailing much newly acquired 
information. One of the stories was laid in 
India ; and I gave Dodd a glowing account of 
a country far away, where it was very, very hot 
always — far hotter than the hottest summer in 
England — but where there were strange ani- 
mals and splendid plants, and where the people 
wore gold and diamonds on their clothes, and 
rode about on elephants. 

To this Dodd replied that he didn’t believe 
as be should think much of that country ; give 
him horse-flesh ! Which a little disappointed 
me. 

‘ When we arrived at the dear old garden gate 
at Mortlands, Selina got down to ring the bell, 
for Ruby did not like standing, and Dodd 
thought it unsafe to relinquish the reins. 

Selina rang a peal at the rusty bell that made 
me quiver sympathetically as the clanging noise 
broke the peaceful stillness of the place, for I 
knew how it would jar against the calm that 
reigned there. At home I should not have 
cared had she made twice as much noise. 

After a little pause the gate was opened, and 
Eliza appeared at it. She was no more flurried 
than if Selina’s alarum had been the tinkling 
of a musical box. I reflected that, under cer- 
tain circumstances, it was not wholly a misfor- 
tune to be somewhat deaf. 

A little black trunk, containing some clothes 
for me, was lifted down and placed inside the 
gate. Selina gave me a sounding kiss on the 
cheeks, which I received with passive coldness, 
and mounted to her place again. Dodd touch- 
ed his hat as I called out, “Good-by, Dodd; 
please tell mother that I am very well, and that 
I had a nice drive. ” And then Ruby, who had 
been fidgeting and chafing during the few min- 
utes of her enforced stay, set off along the ave- 
nue of branching elms that bordered the road 
from Horsingham nearly all the way to Water- 
Eardley, at a pace that soon carried the dog- 
cart out of sight. 

Eliza shut and locked the gate, and I stood 
in the garden, a little dizzy with my rapid 
drive. * 

From subsequent and repeated experience 
of similar days, I do not doubt that as soon as 
I had seen Mrs. Abram I was sent into the 
garden to amuse myself until the dinner hour, 
at which time grandfather would join Mrs. 
Abram and me. All the morning he was either 
seeing patients abroad (although he had volun- 
tarily, and by degrees, already relinquished a 
great part of his practice), or was shut up in 
his study, where none of us would have dared 
to disturb him save on the very gravest emerg- 
ency. 

I say that, from subsequent experience,,! do 
not doubt that I was welcomed by Mrs. Abram 
in her own mournful and husky manner, and 
was then sent out to amuse myself ; but I do 
not remember that such was the fact. 

{ The next picture that memory preserves of 


10 


ANNE EURNESS. 


tliat day shows me myself nestling on the rus- 
tic, moss-grown seat I have once before alluded 
to, with the new story-book in my hand, and a 
heap of flame-colored nasturtiums on my lap. 
How well I recall the hot, pungent taste of 
their seed-vessels that I loved to bite at, al- 
though they burned my mouth! I was read- 
ing a story whose heroine was called Helen : 
and I have ever since connected that name 
with the color of yellow — an association due, 
of course, to the nasturtiums. 

Presently, as it draws near two o’clock — 
grandfather’s dinner hour — Eliza comes to call 
me into the house, and takes me to the little 
bedroom I always occupy at Mortlands, there 
to wash my face and hands, and brush my hair. 
And while this operation is being performed 
she reveals to me that she has got leave to go 
out to tea some evening toward the end of the 
week, and to take me with her, if I am willing 
to go. This is great news. I am very willing 
to go, and begin to inquire about Eliza’s friends 
with much interest. 

“Are they nice people, Eliza?” 

“ Why, Miss Anne, they are humble, but god- 
ly. They have got religion, the whole family.” 

“Like Mrs. Abram?” I ask, doubtfully, for 
the phrase to my ears is not suggestive of fes- 
tivity. 

“ Oh, Miss Anne, it is not for mo to judge. 
They don’t belong to the same Church, you 
know. They go to our chapel.” 

“Do they — do they have nice things when 
they ask people to tea, Eliza ?” 

The answer to this question was highly re- 
assuring ; it included hot butter-cakes and oth- 
er dainties, so that I descended to dinner in 
very good spirits. I was not, in truth, a spe- 
cially greedy child. But the only very “re- 
ligious” person I knew at that time was Mrs. 
Abram ; and her asceticism was such that I was 
prepared to find people renowned for piety in- 
different to hot tea-cakes, if not absolutely dis- 
approving of them. An enlarged experience 
has since entirely disabused my mind of that 
notion. 

Grandfather was as kind and dear as ever, 
and even Mrs. Abram only gave a smothered 
sigh as she wished me many happy returns of 
my birthday. Grandfather gave me a beautiful 
toy dog, snowy white, with a red morocco col- 
lar round its neck, and standing on a green 
platform. Mrs. Abram presented me with a 
woolen jacket of her OAvn knitting, and would 
have added a packet of penny books, but that 
grandfather peremptorily interposed to prevent 
her. 

“ Don’t you think you shall be accountable 
for keeping the bread of life from her. Dr. Hew- 
son?” remonstrated Mrs. Abram. She spoke 
so slowly and huskily, with such a far-off muf- 
fled tone (as of one discoursing inside an empty 
hogshead), that I was impelled to clear my 
throat with a shrill sound that was almost a 
scream. 

“No doubt I shall be accountable for that, if 


I am accountable for any of my actions, Judith. 
Come, come, eat your dinner.” 

Grandfather tapped sharply once or twice 
■with his open palm on the table-cloth, and 
poor Mrs. Abram started from a melancholy 
drooping attitude she had assumed, and pro- 
ceeded to obey him. 

All through dinner-time he watched her 
closely, and, if he saw any symptoms of moodi- 
ness in her, proceeded to rouse her with a per- 
emptory sharpness, which I did not then fully 
understand, but which I noAV know to have 
been dictated by kindness and wisdom. 

I was radiant, and talked about my various 
birthday gifts with the genuine self - engross- 
ment of a child. The toy dog’s name was a mat- 
ter for great debate and deliberation. When 
at length that was settled (I called it Jessie : 
I have totally forgotten for what reason) din- 
ner was over, and I climbed on to grandfather’s 
knee and petitioned to have a story told me. 
A story! That was my great delight. Any 
one who would tell me a story was sure of win- 
ning favor in my eyes. 

Grandfather had a quantity of iron-gray hair 
tossed about in confusion over his head. Oc- 
casionally the whim W'ould seize me to arrange 
this thick mane in what I considered a becom- 
ing manner, and I made loud lament that grand- 
father’s hair would not “stay parted.” It would 
no more “sta}' parted” than water will. And 
yet no lady’s hair is softer and silkier than were 
those willful locks. 

On this special day I claimed a sort of birth- 
day privilege to combine the two enjoyments 
of combing grandfather’s hair and listening to 
grandfather’s story. 

“What shall I tell thee, little Nancy?” ask- 
ed grandfather, submitting with sweet patience 
to the ruthless operations of my seven-year-old 
fingers as they plunged into his hair. 

“ Oh, a story, please, grandfather : any story ! ” 

“ Once upon a time there was a man who 
was very poor, and got his living by cutting 
wood in a forest — ” 

“Oh, I know that one! That’s the Forty 
Thieves !” 

“Well, you didn't bargain for a new story, 
little Nancy !” 

“No ; but-please-zro2i/c?-you-bccause-yester- 
day-was-my-birthday ?” said I, breathlessly, in 
one polysyllabic utterance. 

“ But I don’t know any new stories.” 

“ Then tell about something. Tell about sav- 
ages.” 

“Oh, you little barbarian! I suppose you 
would like to hear about cannibals best?” 

“Poor creatures!” murmured Mrs. Abram, 
shaking her head over her work. “ How awful 
to think of the heathen !” 

She raised her e3’es as she spoke with such a 
strange look of terror that I clung closer to 
grandfather, under the influence of a nameless 
alarm. I was always very accessible to emo- 
tions of fear — a peculiar, formless fear, com- 
pounded of vague possibilities. In the presence 


ANNE EURNESS. 


11 


of physical pain, or tangible danger, I was not 
a coward. 

Grandfather stroked my head softly, and 
made answer, “No, no, little Nancy; we will 
have nothing savage in our birthday story. We 
will speak of something pleasanter. I have a 
true story that I can tell you ; a story about a 
bov.” 

“What boy ?” 

“An Anglo-Scottish boy.” 

“What for?” 

My question was merely intended to demand, 
in a compendious manner, all the information 
that could he given me respecting the boy. 
But Mrs. Abram interpreted it literally, and re- 
plied, as through a blanket, “Will of God, 
love.” 

“There were, once upon a time, two boys,” 
began grandfather. 

“ Two boys — ?” 

He held up a warning finger to prevent fur- 
ther interruptions; and I nestled my head 
down against his breast so that I might fed as 
well as hear the vibrations of his deep voice, 
and prepared to listen quietly. 

“These two boys were at school together. 
One was six years the elder of the other, so 
that he was quite an old boy in comparison to 
the little fellow.” 

“May I just ask this: what were they call- 
ed?” 

Grandfather paused a moment, and then said, 
“The big boy was called Abel, and the other 
Stephen. Stephen was a bright-faced, affec- 
tionate boy — very bold and generous by nature. 
About Abel I can not say very much, except 
that he was not mean or cruel, and did not like 
to see the small boys put upon by the elders. 
Steenie — that was Stephen’s nickname — was 
another boy’s fag.” Here I again interrupted 
to have the meaning of that Avord explained to 
me ; which being done, grandfather resumed : 

“Steenie’s master was a A^ery brutal boy. 
He liked to tease and hurt animals, and to in- 
flict pain on any helpless thing that could not 
resist him. Nobody liked him, but many fear- 
ed him ; for he Avas tall and strong, and ready 
to fight alAvays. One day poor little Steenie 
had offended this ruffianly boy ; and after 
school-hours, Avhen Ave Avere all in a big play- 
ground together, he set upon the little fellow, 
and began to beat him so cruelly that several 
of the boys cried shame !” 

“Why didn’t they save Steenie? I would 
have hilled that bad boy ! I Avould have got a 
gun and shot him I” 

I clenched my little fists, and sat uprightly 
on grandfather’s knee, Avith cheeks on fire with 
indignation. He looked at me curiously, but 
not angrily. Mrs. Abram, on the contrary, 
raised her hands in reprobation of my evil pas- 
sions. 

“We didn’t shoot each other, little Nancy,” 
said grandfather. “The masters Avould have 
objected to the practice, and it might, if carried 
to any length, haA'o brought discredit on the 


school. But Abel Avas very grieved and angry 
to see the poor little fellow so badly used ; so 
he Avent up to the bully, Avhose name Avas Jack- 
son, and told him either to leave off beating 
Steenie, or to fight him (Abel).” 

“I hope he hurt Jackson ten times AA'orse 
than Jackson hurt Steenie !” 

“Well, he had all the Avill to do so, but 
Jackson happened to be twice as big and strong 
as Abel, and Abel got licked. But he had 
given Jackson enough for one Avhile, and he 
never afterAvard Avas so cruel to little Steenie 
as he had been. And not long after the fight, 
Jackson left the school, and then Steenie be- 
came Abel’s fag, and they greAv very fond of 
one another.” 

“ I should have loved Abel — oh, eA'er so ! if 
I had been Steenie.” 

“Steenie AV'as a very grateful-hearted little 
felloAV, and he did love Abel ‘ ever so,’ although 
Avhat Abel had done for him Avas a small thing, 
after all. One day Steenie jumped into the 
river, Avith his clothes on, to save a little dog 
from being droAvned, just because he kncAv Abel 
AA'as fond of the creature.” 

“I like Steenie.” 

“Yes; most people did like Steenie.” 

“Did he die?” 

“No ; he grcAv up to be a man, and became 
a soldier, and went aAvay to India.” 

“ Oh, I knoAv all about India!” 

“Do you, indeed, little Nancy? That is 
rather valuable knoAvledge in these days.” 

“Yes; it’s aAvfully hot there.” 

“True. Well, that is nearly as much as 
some government officials have knoAvn about 
India Avithin — the last cycle or so. You open 
big eyes, and don’t understand a Avord I’m say- 
ing, little Nancy. Well, Steenie Avent to India, 
and married a pretty young lady, AA'hom he Avas 
very fond of, there ; and they lived very hap- 
pily until the young lady died.” 

“ What became of Abel, grandfather ?” 

“Oh, you Avant to knoAV Avhat became of 
Abel ? Why, he didn’t turn soldier. He took 
to killing folk in anothel* fashion.” 

“ Why did he kill them ?” said I, a good deal 
startled. 

“For the same reason as the soldier — to 
earn his living.” 

“ Is Steenie the — the — Anglo-Saxon boy you 
Avere going to tell me of, grandfather ?” 

“Anglo-Scottish, little Nancy. No ; the boy 
I had chiefly to speak about is Steenie ’s son, 
Donald Ayrlie.” 

“Oh! then it’s eA'er so long ago the fight, 
and — Avhy, grandfather, your name is Abel ! ” 

“ And your real name is Anne, if you come to 
that, little Nancy.” 

“ No, but do tell me ! Was it you that saA'ed 
the boy and fought the other boy ? But, grand- 
father, I’m sure you never killed any body? 
So you just told a story — there now !” 

“ You asked for a story, didn’t you ? But I 
must finish, because I Avant to go aAvay, and 
there is an interesting part to come. Steenie’s 


12 


ANNE FUENESS. 


son, Donald, was sent home from India when 
he was a very small child. India — which you 
know all about — does not do for little white 
hoys and girls to live in. They wither up like 
flowers that get no shelter from the sun. So 
Donald Ayrlic was sent to his mother’s rela- 
tions in England to be taken care of. But 
the relations are going to leave England ; and 
Donald is now a good big boy at school. And 
his father wrote to me to ask if I Avould let him, 
for the sake of auld lang syne — ” 

“What’s that?” 

“I can not stay to explain it fully now. In 
short. Captain Ayrlie asked if I would let his 
boy spend his holidays here, now and then; 
and if I would look after him sometimes. And 
he is coming very soon ; — there now ! as you 
say, little Nancy.” 

Grandfather set me down on the floor, kissed 
me, and bade me be good and not tease Mrs. 
Abram. And then he w'ent away to his study. 

I would fain have asked a hundred questions 
about this Donald, and about grandfather’s 
school life, and many other things. But I 
knew that it was vain to beg grandfather to 
stay when he had once said he must go. I 
never knew him go back from his word in the 
most trifling things. 

So I was driven to calm my excitement as 
best I could ; and being in want of something 
to do, I accepted’Mrs. Abram’s offer of teach- 
ing me to do a sample, and sat down with a 
box full of scraps of colored wool and a square 
of canvas, to mark my name on it. IMrs. Abram 
took advantage of grandfather’s absence to read 
aloud from one of the little penny books she had 
by her. My head was so full of other matters 
that I did not attend very much to what she 
was reading. I have a dim notion that it was 
the life (after his reformation) of a penitent 
“navvy,” who had been a hideous reprobate, 
and who was quite sure that his own sins had 
been washed white as snow, but suffered a good 
deal from despondency about the sins of his 
neighbors. 

But I was so engrossed with speculations as 
to what “ Donald” would be like, that not only 
did he stand between me and the “navvy” 
(which perhaps was as well), but he absolutely 
obliterated the promised tea -drinking for a 
while. By-and-by Mrs. Abram went away to 
her own room. I think she usually took a nap 
after dinner, but I am not sure. 

I was not sorry to be alone. There I sat 
before the red, glowing fire, dreaming delight- 
fully. It was in the autumn, I am sure of 
the date by my birthday, which falls on the 17th 
of September, and this was the following day. 

There is a fibre in my composition which al- 
Avays responds to the influence of a pensive 
melancholy. I suppose it is the same strain in 
my nature that, for as long as I can recollect, 
has made me prefer to spring and morning the 
evening of the day and the autumn of the year. 

I have said that I was alone, but in fact 
there was another occupant of the room (I speak 


not of visionary creatures of the fancy, for they 
were thick as motes in a sunbeam, and made a 
society that I loved better than that of most 
beings in the flesh), namely, Tib, my grandfa- 
ther’s tailless Manx cat, whom I looked on as 
a rare and valuable phenomenon in natural his- 
tory. Tib crouched on the hearth-rug beside 
me, purring drowsily, and blinking his green 
eyes at the fire. Perhaps he, too, Avas dream- 
ing. The tAvilight greAV deeper. The air w'as 
so still that not a tAvig stirred of the garden 
shrubs outside the long French AvindoAV, and 
all the house Avas hushed in silence, save only 
the chirp of crickets on the kitchen hearth. I 
could hear their elfin voices across the broad 
stone passage that divided it from the dining- 
room, and Tib’s purring droned out a dreamy 
bass to the shrill cricket chorus. 

Suddenly, but softly, Eliza opened the door 
and said to some unseen person, “Master is in 
his study. He can’t be disturbed just now. 
Will you please stay here a bit until I can tell 
Dr. HeAvson as you’re come ?” 

The unseen person entered the room. Eliza 
left it and closed the door. I was much start- 
led. The apparition of a stranger at Mortlands 
Avas an unprecedented phenomenon Avithin my 
remembrance. I remained sitting on my little 
stool, Avith my scraps of avooI and the square of 
canvas crumpled up on my lap, and it was a 
second or so before I ventured to raise my eyes. 
When at length I did so, they encountered no- 
thing very terrible — merely a roundish head, 
dimly seen in the dusk, and by no means so 
high above my OAvn as I had anticipated. My 
eyes fell again immediately, and lighted on a 
pair of clumsy high-loAVS, whereof the toe of 
one Avas uneasily hiding against the heel of the 
other. 

» 

CHAPTER III. 

The owner of the high-loAvs stood for half a 
minute Avithout moving, further than to kick 
one foot against the other, as I have said. Then 
he advanced from the door toAvard the fire and 
sat doAvn. But he took a chair that Avas out of 
the range of the fire-light, and was, besides, so 
far from the Avindow as to receiA'e no glimmer 
from thence, so that he AA'as immediately SAA^al- 
loAved up in a black gulf of shadoAv. 

I observed Tib blink greenly tOAvard the cor- 
ner AA^herc he of the high-loAvs sat, and I envied 
Tib’s power of vision, for I firmly believed that 
cats could see even in the most palpable dark- 
ness, and I took it for granted that the black 
shadoAV Avas to Tib transparent as a crystal 
screen. 

I did not know Avhat to do. I felt that I was 
not behaving Avith the ease and a plomb Avhich, 
according to Dodd, might be expected from my 
years, and yet an inA’incible shyness bound me. 

At length, after a silence Avhich seemed to last 
an hour, I muttered, stammeringly, “Would 
you like to come nearer the fire, please ?” 


ANNE FURNESS. 


“Yes, I should,” was the immediate response, 
delivered in a clear voice, and with an accent 
that was strange to my ears. 

Encouraged by this prompt acquiescence, I 
ventured further : 

“Would you like to have the other stool and 
sit in front of the fire ?” As I spoke the stran- 
ger emerged from his obscurity, and I saw by 
the fitful light from the hearth — it was now al- 
most dark outside — a little boy with light au- 
burn hair and blue eyes, and a singularly grave 
and candid expression of face. When I ob- 
served his gloveless hands, red and purple with 
the cold, I did not wonder that he should be 
willing to approach the fire. 

He drew up the stool I had pointed out be- 
side mine, and sat down, stretching his legs 
out straight before him. They were not very 
long legs, and did not stretch far ; but they were 
stout and sturdy, as was the boy’s whole build. 

“How cold you are, ain’t you?” I said, em- 
boldened by finding a person apparently still 
more silent and awkward than myself. 

He nodded, and answered briefly, “Pretty 
well.” Something in the look that accompa- 
nied the w'ords — a half smile, a little frank lift- 
ing of the brows — made me all at once sure that 
this could be no other than “ Steenie’s” son. 

“You’re Donald, ain’t you?” I said, forget- 
ting to be shy in my eagerness, and looking 
straight at him with all my eyes. 

“Yes; I’m Donald Ayrlie.” 

He kept rubbing his hands, or clapping them 
together, and tapped with one thick boot against 
the floor, as though he were keeping time to a 
tune. 

“I know about your father, and Abel, and 
the fight with Jackson. Grandfather told me. 
Grandfather was Abel. Did you know ?” 

“Who is your grandfather?” demanded Don- 
ald, looking at me very solemnly. 

“ Why, Dr. Hewson ! He was very fond of 
Steenie. So am I. I like Steenie for saving 
the dog, don’t you ?” 

It appeared on investigation that Donald was 
unacquainted with the story of the great fight 
between Hewson and Jackson, and the cause 
of that terrific combat. He merely knew in a 
general way that his father and my grandfather 
had been school-fellows. But he had not seen 
his father for a long time (“Not since I was 
quite a little fellow, several years ago,” he ob- 
served, with gravity), and he was of opinion 
that when he left India he was too much of a 
baby to be talked to on such important topics. 

“I’m seven years old,” said I. Turned 
seven !” 

“Oh,” answered Donald, “I was seven al- 
most four years ago !” 

While I was taxing my powers of calculation 
to ascertain the present age of this enviable per- 
son, who had been seven almost four years ago, 
he added, “I shall be eleven in two months.” 

We both sat silent for a time after this, look- 
ing into the fire. At length I resumed the con- 
versation in the form of a catechism ; which, in- 


13 

deed, was the form my conversation was apt to 
take. 

“ Did grandfather know that you were com- 
ing to-night ?” 

“I suppose not. The maid said I wasn’t ex- 
pected yet. Old Crowe said he should write in 
time, but I suppose he didn’t.” 

“Who is old Crowe?” 

“ Our writing-master.” 

“ Do you like him ?” 

“No ; I should think not ! ” The answer was 
given in such a tone as made me feel that my 
question had involved an absurdity. Still I 
could not refrain asking, timidly, “Doesn’t 
any body like him ?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” replied Donald, musing- 
ly. It was evidently a new idea to him that 
any body should be expected to like old Crowe. 

“ Don’t his relations like him ?” 

“Perhaps they may. I shouldn’t like him 
if he was my relation, that’s all !” 

I meditated on these words for some time, 
and at last resolved to pursue the matter fur- 
ther. I wished Donald to like me, and I 
thought that if'he could be got to state his 
grounds of objection to old Crowe, I might 
obtain a criterion whereby to judge what was 
likely to win his (Donald’s) approbation ; so I 
put yet another question : “ Why shouldn’t you 
like him if he was your relation ?” 

“ Old Crowe ! Why he drops his h’s ! And 
he’s so beastly greedy! Why he has turtle- 
soup every day at the pastry-cook’s; and his 
wife and all of them have to eat scrag of mut- 
ton! I shouldn’t think you’d like that your- 
self!” exclaimed Donald, in a tone of indig- 
nant remonstrance. 

I hastened to assure him that I should not 
like that myself; and that I considered it very 
naughty and shocking to be greedy. I further 
reflected w'ith secret satisfaction that I had 
been taught to pronounce my h’s. But I did 
not mention this fact. 

Presently I resumed my catechism. 

“ Who brought you here ?” 

“Nobody. I came by myself.” 

“Did — you — walk?” I demanded, hesita- 
tingly. 

“Walk!” echoed Donald. And the scorn 
in his voice made the hot blood suffuse my face 
until my very ears tingled. “Why, Avhat a 
little silly you must be to suppose I could walk 
from one end of England to the other ! ” 

“ Oh ! I didn’t know.” 

“Did you never learn geography?” 

I was forced, with unspeakable humiliation, 
to confess that I had not yet tackled that sci- 
ence. But I asserted (I fear quite ground- 
lessly) that I was going to begin immediately. 

“Well, I don’t know much geography,” was 
Donald’s utterly unexpected reply. “We do 
Latin mostly. And a jolly lot of it too, I can 
tell you ! You wouldn’t be able to do a quar- 
ter of it.” 

I suggested that I thought I could learn Lat- 
in if I tried. 


u 


ANNE FURNESS. 


“Oh no, you couldn’t,” returned Donald, 
decisively. “ Girls never learn Latin. Be- 
sides, you’re too small. Hullo ! What a queer- 
looking cat ! Why, he hasn’t got a tail ! 
What a lark!” 

Donald leaned across me to stroke Tib, who 
had arisen, and was stretching himself on the 
hearth-rug, thereby conspicuously exhibiting 
his lack of tail. 

My self- consequence had been a good 
deal ruffled by Donald’s cavalier speech about 
the Latin. The accusation of smallness, too, 
seemed to me injurious. I therefore seized 
on the present opportunity to retort ; and an- 
swered, with dignity, “Why, he’s a Manx cat. 
Manx is in the Isle of Man. And Manx cats 
never have tails. I wonder you didn’t know 
that!” 

“ No ! Haven’t they, though ? None of ’em 
got any tails ? Are you sure ? Have you ever 
been at Manx, in the Isle of Man ?” 

Donald was so simply good-humored, so will- 
ing to be as surprised as I would have had him, 
so far from resenting, or even perceiving, my 
little bit of a sneer, that I instantly put myself 
at the bar of conscience (to me, that has never 
been an indulgent tribunal. I have usually 
found my judgment of myself far sterner than 
the judgment of others upon me ; but, alas, I 
believe, far juster also !), and became quite pen- 
itent. I hoisted up Tib in my arms, and set 
him on Donald’s knees, as a peace-offering, ad- 
vising him, at the same time, to stroke Tib, 
and feel how soft his coat was ; and declaring 
that I dared to say Tib would make great 
friends with him very soon. 

At this moment grandfather opened the door, 
and stood there for a second, looking at our 
two childish heads bending down close together 
in the shine of the fire. 

Donald scrambled to his feet as soon as he 
became aware of grandfather’s presence in the 
room, and the latter advanced and took the 
boy’s hand kindly in his. His other hand he 
laid on Donald’s head, and turned his face 
so as to see it as well as the gloom would 
allow. 

“Hullo, Master Donald!” said grandfather, 
smiling with his mouth, but fixing grave, search- 
ing eyes on the blue eyes raised to meet his. 
“ So you’ve stolen a march upon us ! I did 
not expect you until Wednesday.” 

“I hope it ain’t inconvenient. Sir,” began 
Donald, blushing. 

“Not a bit, boy; not a bit! Glad to see 
you. H’m! you’re like your father. You 
couldn’t be like a better man. Poor little 
Steenie ! How the old times come back ! But 
you’re a giant to what he was when I first kneAv 
him. You’re older, eh ? Almost eleven ? Aha! 
The years spin along ‘swifter than a weaver’s 
shuttle.’ Men found that out in the ancientest 
days. Good face!" 

Grandfather uttered the last w^ords half 
aloud, in a fashion he had sometimes of solilo- 
quizing audibly. And as he spoke them, he 


relinquished his hold of Donald, and pushed 
him gently from him. 

Then, as one who reads aloud closes a chap- 
ter with lowered voice, and begins a fresh one 
in a correspondingly fresh key, grandfather re- 
sumed in a quite different, and much louder 
tone, “Now, before I ask you a word about 
your journey, or any thing else, go up stairs 
and wash your hands and face, and brush your 
hair, for tea. You must be hungry. They’re 
getting something ready for you. Here’s Eli- 
za. Show Master Ayrlie to his room, Eliza. 
Give him some soap and water. Eliza will 
look after you. She’s a very good, kind young 
woman ; a trifle deaf ; so that if she don’t an- 
swer you directly, you mustn’t think her sulky. 
Be off!” 

The instant Donald had disappeared I sprung 
upon grandfather’s knee, and plunged into a 
recital of all that I had said to Donald, and all 
that Donald had said to me, which lasted until 
Mrs. Abram came in, simultaneously with the 
tea-tray. 

I did not then notice it as any thing remark- 
able ; but I observe retrospectively that Mrs. 
Abram was never intrusted with any house- 
hold duties ; that she was never expected to 
take any share in the domestic administration ; 
and that she never seemed to wish to do so. 
She, indeed, demanded little personal atten- 
tion ; but she contributed nothing in the way 
of labor or arrangement to the government of 
the house. In this department Keturah held 
undivided sway. 

I gathered a general notion from what grand- 
father and Mrs. Abram said to eaclr other that 
Donald had come a long way by the coach, and 
that he was at a great publie school in a south- 
ern county. I remember Mrs. Abram mur- 
muring, in her huskiest tones, “Did the poor 
child come by himself all that way. Dr. Hew- 
son?” and grandfather’s replying, “By him- 
self? Of course he did ! He didn’t require a 
nurse-maid to take care of him, Judith.” 

Then Donald came down, with his face shin- 
ing very much, and his hair all sprinkled with 
drops of water. Cold meat and some beer 
were brought up for him, and Keturah sent in 
a dish of mashed potatoes deliciously crisped 
and brown on the top, and afterward several re- 
lays of hot tea-cakes, for which she was famous. 

Donald ate and drank with true, healthy, 
school-boy appetite. Mrs. Abram was aghast 
at the quantity of food that disappeared wnthin 
his unweai’ied young jaws. But grandfather 
looked on with glistening eyes. I had my lit- 
tle cup of tea — a pale brown liquid, more than 
three parts milk — and some of the nice hot 
cake. But I looked longingly at the mashed 
potatoes, and was only restrained from asking 
for some of them by the fear lest Donald shoMd 
think me greedy, like old Crowe. 

After tea grandfatlier took his usual place at 
the fireside ; Mrs. Abram sat opposite to him, 
on a specially uncomfortable chair she had se- 
lected for her own use, and began to knit some- 


ANNE FURNESS. 


thing made of fleecy wool. I climbed on grand- 
father’s knee, and Donald was bidden to draw 
his chair up before the fire. 

“Now, Donald Ayrlie,” said grandfather, 
“have you been duly presented and inti-oduced 
to this young person ? Miss Anne Furness, of 
Water-Eardly Manor, commonly called little 
Nancy — ” 

“Not commonly, grandfather,” I whispered. 
“Only by you.” 

“ C/hcommonly called little Nancy,” pursued 
grandfather ; whereat I felt abashed. 

“Have you made friends with each other, 
you two ?” 

“Yes, Sir,” said Donald. 

“That’s right. I want you to be good 
friends. You are the only two young things in 
the house. All the rest of us are very, very 
ancient.” 

“Is Tib old. Sir?” asked Donald, simply. 

“ Tib is fallen into the sere and yellow leaf,” 
replied grandfather. 

“What is that, grandfather?” I asked. 

“ That is a way of saying that he is getting 
old ; just as the leaves turn dry and yellow 
when they are near dropping from the tree.” 

“But the leaves grow again, don’t they?” 

“Ay, ay, little Nancy. The leaves grow 
again. But when poor Tib disappears from 
among us his place will know him no more. 
There Avill be other Tibs, perhaps ; Tib’s kit- 
tens.” 

“ That’s not the same ! I like this Tib. I 
don’t care for the other Tibs.” 

“Little Nancy!” muttered grandfather, mus- 
ingly, while he laid a soft, lingering touch on 
my head. “Little, tender-hearted Nancy! 
AVhy, the tears are in her eyes ! Oh, cheer up, 
little Nancy ! What are you crying for ?” 

“I don’t w^ant Tib to die.” 

“ Now look here, little Nancy ; you are cry- 
ing a little bit because you are fond of Tib, and 
a great bit because you have been excited and 
tired, and because it’s getting near bedtime.” 

“No, I don’t!” sobbed I, replying to an ac- 
cusation understood, though not expressed ; “ I 
don’t feel a bit sleepy, indeed, grandfather.” 

“You don’t know that you do. But grand- 
father is wiser than little Nancy — which isn’t 
saying much ; is it, Donald ?” 

Donald had been looking on at this scene in 
mute surprise, I doubt not. He was sorry to 
see me shed tears, but could scarcely be called 
sympathetic, inasmuch as he was totally unable 
to imagine my state of high-strung nervousness. 
When grandfather appealed to him he got up, 
and lifting the cat very gently in his arms, 
brought it to me and made me stroke it. ‘ ‘ Look 
here,” he said. “Tib’s all right. He’s quite 
jolly, you see, isn’t he? And he doesn’t know 
he must die some day, so it don’t matter to 
him.'' 

“Well said, Donald,” cried grandfather, 
clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re not 
morbid, at all events.” 

“What’s morbid?” I asked, trying’ to wipe 


15 

off my tears with a corner of the inaccessible 
pocket-handkerchief. 

‘ ‘ I think little Nancy must wait to have that 
explained until she is big Nancy. Meanwhile 
Nancy is not too little to attend to this : it is 
very nice to love Tib, and be kind to him ; but 
it is still nicer to understand that crying because 
he must die does him no good, and annoys 
people who have more sense than poor Tib, 
and whom you ought to love a little too.” 

Among my other deep debts to my grand- 
father, I believe that it is to him I OAve that I 
have not grown up a prey to an exaggerated 
sensibility. At home this trait was either laugh- 
ed at or praised to the skies. Only at Mort- 
lands w'as I taught, by precept and example, 
how much nobler is self-command than the 
weak indulgence of every passing emotion. Wo 
all easily grow proud of our faults ; and I fear 
I was peculiarly liable to have done so. But 
grandfather never shrank from telling me plain 
truths, and inflexibly enforcing his own will 
whenever it chanced to come into collision with 
mine. 

I sat in silence, broken only by an occasional 
sniff, stroking Tib, and nestling against grand- 
father’s breast, as he talked to Donald about 
his school life, and made many inquiries as to 
his lessons. 

I did not understand a great deal that they 
were saying, but I perceived that grandfather 
was satisfied with Donald’s answers. Gradual- 
ly the sound of their voices sank into a confused 
buzz, and anon they became preternaturally loud 
and distinct, and Donald’s barley-sugar-colored 
hair glittered and expanded into a kind of au- 
reole of undefined outline. In a word, I was 
gi'owing desperately sleepy ; but the last thing 
I remember saying, while I was in the dining- 
room, was, “Oh no, indeed, I don’t want to go 
to bed one bit, grandfather!” 

Then I was dimly conscious of being carried 
up stairs, and of the ticking of a watch close at 
my ear — which proves that it must have been 
grandfather who carried me — and of being laid 
gently on my little white bed, where Eliza un- 
dressed me. The rest is silence. 



CHAPTER IV. 


That week at Mortlands passed away very 
quickly. I did the honors of the garden to 
Donald, and showed him all my favorite nooks, 
and timidly revealed to him a few of the le- 
gends my fancy had attached to them. But I 
did not find him so much interested in these lat- 
ter as I could have -wished. He rather hurt my 
feelings at first, by observing that the story of 
the White Cat was nonsense, and couldn’t be 
true ; and farther, that for his part he was ratlTer 
glad it wasn’t true — for -what a bother it would 
be for a fellow to have a lot of hands messing 
about him like that prince had in the white 
cat’s palace, and to be dressed and undressed 
like a baby ! And as for the rabbit-hunt they 


IG 


ANNE FURNESS. 


went to, why what was it to tiger-luinting in 
India? or buflfalo-hunting on the prairies of 
America ? That M'as the kind of sport for him ! 
And when he grew up he intended to travel and 
see countries and wonderful things — real won- 
derful things, not make-believe nonsense like 
fairy stories. 

But Donald also was able to make-believe on 
occasion. lie turned the old rustic garden-seat 
into the deck of the Erebus^ and, enveloped in 
one of Keturah’s ironing-blankets, and accom- 
panied by one faithful follower (myself, with my 
knitted woolen jacket tied round my neck by 
the sleeves, and with hlrs. Abram’s muff’ on my 
head), we sallied forth across the trackless 
wastes of snow and blocks of ice — represented 
by a lettuce-bed and a so-called “grotto,” 
meaning merely a heap of stones and shells 
overgrown with moss — to discover the North 
Pole. We did discover it, as far as I remem- 
ber ; and if I am not mistaken, Ave stuck a twig 
into the ground to mark the spot, so that we 
might find the North Polo again without diffi- 
culty, and then hastened back to the ship to in- 
form our brave mess-mates of the triumphant 
success of our expedition. 

Another time Tib was made to do duty for a 
tiger of the jungle (I recollect that his peculiar 
conformation Avas accounted for by his haA'ing, 
lost his tail in a trap set by the native hunters !), 
Avhile Donald took aim at him Avith grandfa- 
ther’s Avalking-stick from an ambush of goose- 
berry bushes. 

To me the North Pole and a jungle full of 
tigers Avere as replete Avith elements of the mar- 
A’elous as the “Arabian Nights” or the “Child’s 
OAvn Book;” and when I found that Donald’s 
realism merely meant substituting one Avonder 
for another, I Avas perfectly content, and enter- 
ed into it all Avith the happy versatility of child- 
hood. 

But our great play Avas Robinson Crusoe. 
Donald implicitly believed in the truth of ca'- 
ery detail of that immortal fiction. And as, 
moreover, it presented the almost unique ad- 
A'antage of a dramatis jiersonce (at least through- 
out the only part of the story that Ave concern- 
ed ourselves Avith) Avhich numerically fitted our 
corps, there was an additional reason for per- 
forming it frequently. 

Many an hour have we spent strengthening 
the fortifications around the cave, digging in- 
trenchments, and “getting things neat and 
handsome about us” in the interior of the 
dwelling. Many a time, in my character of 
man Friday, have I spluttered and made faces 
OA'er food cooked AA’ith salt, and smiled and 
nodded energetically to express approAml of 
victuals dressed Avithout that condiment. (Our 
fare, Avhen it left Keturah’s hands, was mostly 
bread and treacle, or it might be a slice of 
seed - cake ; but by the time it reached our 
desolate island, behind the big elder bushes at 
the bottom of the garden, it Avas sure to have 
turned into goat’s flesh, turtles’ eggs, or wood- 
pigeon.) Many a time has HaA'ilah, grandfa- 


ther’s “odd man,” Avhom I have before alluded 
to, been assailed Avith a brisk volley of musketry 
from a rolling-fire and the Avalking-stick, Avhich 
had already done execution on the tiger of the 
jungle, and compelled, blood-thirsty cannibal 
that he Avas, to take to his canoe, and disap- 
pear across the ocean into the distant brcAV- 
house. 

“Many a time,” I have said, and yet all 
these things happened Avithin a Aveek! But 
days AA’ere long then, and full of incidents. 
Tedium Avas unknoAvn, as AA-as that mournful 
kind of experience Avhich teaches that to-mor- 
roAv must be sad because it Avill be analogous 
to to-day. 

It may be remembered that Eliza had spoken 
to me before Donald’s arriA-al of a contemplated 
tea-drinking. She obtained leave for ‘ ‘ Master 
Ayrlie” to join the party, and we all three went 
to her friend’s house one afternoon. 

Eliza’s friend A\'as called Kitchen. We chil- 
dren thought this a very odd name, but Ave re- 
frained from saying so, for fear of hurting Eli- 
za’s feelings. 

Mr. Kitchen lived in a tiny house in a re- 
mote, silent street called Burton's Gardens. 
All streets in Ilorsingham Avere more or less 
silent, except at “race time,” Avhen the Avhole 
tOAA’n moved and babbled like a stream sudden- 
ly set free from frost ; but Burton’s Gardens 
AA'as perhaps the dullest and least-frequented 
spot in Ilorsingham. On our Avay thither Eliza 
gave ns a long account of the Kitchens, from 
which it appeared that Mr. Kitchen Avas a Avid- 
ower, Avith one son and one daughter ; that he 
Avas by trade a coach-maker, and had been fore- 
man many years in his father-in-laAv’s shop ; 
that his father-in-laAA', Mr. Green, had saved a 
great deal of money ; that the said IMr. Green 
Avas rather “near,” but A'ery strict in his moral 
vicAvs ; that l\[r. Kitchen’s son AA-as apprenticed 
to his father’s and grandfather’s business, Avhilo 
his daughter kept house ; and that j\Ir. Green Avas 
confidently expected to bequeath his Avealth to 
his grandchildren, Matthew and Alice Kitchen. 

“ So you see. Miss Anne,” said Eliza, follow- 
ing out a sequence of ideas Avith which I Avas 
not then so fiimiliar as I have since become, 
“ the Kitchens are most respectable.” 

I should not deem it necessary to commem- 
orate this tea-drinking but for the fact of its 
being the occasion of introducing me to people 
Avho Avere afterward closely connected Avith 
some of the chief incidents of my life. My re- 
membrance of the CA-ening has doubtless been 
greatly assisted by my subsequent knoAA’ledge 
of the people at whose house I passed it. 

There Avas a strip of garden inclosed Avithin 
green palings in front of the house — a garden 
so small as only to contain one flower-bed, of 
about the size and shape of the apple-pies Ke- 
turah gaA-e us at dinner. A AA-hite chrysanthe- 
mum occupied this bed, Avhich Avas bordered 
Avith London pride, and surrounded by a path 
not much broader than my sash, streAvn in a 
geometrical pattern with various colored gravel. 


ANNE FUllNESS. 


17 


I remember that Donald and I admired this 
vastly. 

We were received very kindly. The Kitch- 
ens were not at all gloomy, as I had expected. 
They laughed and talked and ate with great 
apparent enjoyment. I thought this rather 
strange, for the two or three books on a side- 
table that I peeped into (I could never see a 
book without longing to open it) appeared to 
contain matter of a very depressing and awful 
description ; and I had heard Eliza say that the 
preacher at the chapel they attended was 
“ enough to make your blood run cold” some- 
times. 

The whole was, as I have said, tiny ; and the 
parlor we took tea in seemed scarcely big enough 
at first sight to hold us all ; but we found room 
enough after a while. There was a great old- 
fashioned escritoire opposite toil the window, 
made of shining black wood. In the centre of 
it was a flap covered with green baize, that 
turned down so as to form a writing-desk ; and 
on this flap were disposed a huge Bible, an il- 
lustrated edition of the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” 
and a white china elephant with a gilt trunk, 
and a gilt turret on his back, which turret was 
an ingenious contrivance for holding ink ; and 
there was a steel pen stuck into a hole in the 
turret, and I noticed that the steel pen ap- 
peared to be the only article in the room that 
did not look bright and clean. It was very 
rusty and dirty, and the wooden holder was 
thick with old ink-stains. I supposed that 
when Mr. Kitchen wanted to write a letter he 
took a better pen from some one of the many 
drawers in the escritoire ; but on confiding this 
supposition to Donald, he answered that very 
likely Mr. Kitchen never did write letters. 

Alice Kitchen, Donald and I decided, was a 
very pretty girl. She had row upon row of 
stiff light brown curls all round her head, and 
a fair skin, and she wore a blue bead necklace. 
Mr. Kitchen was an elderly man, who did not 
impress me particularly. He seemed rather 
fond of making jokes, most of which I did not 
understand, and he ate an enormous quantity 
of butter-cakes, saying, every now and then, 
“Alice, my daughter, go and see if the little 
maiden can not find yet another batch of but- 
ter-cakes in the oven. Let us enjoy the merci- 
ful gifts of the Lord. Let us not receive them 
with a thankless heart.” 

Donald and I very much approved of this 
doctrine, and devoured so much pastry as makes 
me bilious even to think of nowadays, though 
I do not remember that any evil consequences 
followed it then. 

Both Mr. Kitchen and Alice appeared de- 
lighted at the quantity we ate, and kept hospi- 
tably pressing us to take more. This, I reflect- 
ed, was very different from Mrs. Abram, who 
had a fixed idea that we should infallibly over- 
eat ourselves at every meal. I have thought 
since that she possibly attributed this to the in- 
nate depravity of our unregenerate natures. I 
suppose that she herself must have suffered fre- 
B 


quently from indigestion, for I remember that 
she used to “ quack” herself, as grandfather 
called it, in secret. And I have seen him ruth- 
lessly confiscate many a little round pasteboard 
box, wherever he laid hands on it. As for my- 
self, I believe no child of the contemporary 
generation was physicked less. Grandfather 
had as mortal an aversion to dosing folks “as 
though medicine were poison,” as Mrs. Abram 
plaintively observed ^ “ and he’s a doctor too !” 

We had half done tea before Matthew Kitch- 
en came in. He had been detained at the shop 
by stress of work. 

“That is,” explained Mr. Kitchen, “he 
hadn’t ought to have been expected to stay 
over-hours, but his grandfather thinks no end 
of Mat, and has a fancy that so long as he’s 
there things goes right. And Mat nat’rally 
don’t like to put his grandfather out.” 

I took a strong and instant dislike to this 
young man. He was clumsily and awkwardly 
made, and moved in a loose-jointed fashion. 
He had red cheeks and black eyes, a shapeless 
snub nose, and coarse, pouting lips of unspeak- 
able sullenness, surmounted by a black down of 
incipient mustache. 

His father and sister seemed anxious to pro- 
pitiate him, I thought ; for they made room for 
him eagerly, and Alice put fresh tea into the 
pot, and sent into the kitchen for hot cakes, 
earnestly assuring Matthew that they had been 
put aside specially for him. He said grace in 
a growling bass voice, and afterward a hush 
seemed to fall upon us all. Even the butter- 
cakes seemed to have lost their savor ; but that 
may have been because we had already eaten 
so many. 

The only incident of that evening worth re- 
cording is a sudden blaze of defiance elicited 
from Donald by Mat Kitchen. The word 
“ blaze,” perhaps, is too unsteady and fleeting 
to describe Donald’s condition. It was rather 
a glow. It happened thus : Mr. Kitchen had 
been telling me (in an elaborately easy style, 
as of one painfully stooping to my childish 
level) how Dr. Hewson, my grandfather, had 
attended his (Kitchen’s) late wife in her last 
illness; and how, although it was impossible 
to save her life, grandfather’s care and skill 
alleviated her sufferings. I listened with much 
interest, and thought it kind and pleasant of 
Mr. Kitchen to speak so well of grandfather, 
when Mat (Avhom, in my subsequent knowl- 
edge of him, I discovered to be constitutionally 
averse to hear other people praised) interposed 
gruffly with the remark that the skill of the 
godless profiteth nothing. 

“ Grandfather isn’t godless !” cried I, flushed 
and trembling in a moment. 

“No, deary, no,” said Alice, soothingly. 
“Don’t ye mind. Matthew is very zealous in 
testifying. But he don’t mean it, deary.” 

But this equivocal praise did not suit Mat- 
thew’s temper. 

“Yes, I do mean it!” he said, apparently 
beginning to enjoy himself more than he had 


18 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


hitherto done throughout the evening, and let- 
ting his pouting mouth relax into something 
like a smile. “ I ain’t a-going to be a respecter 
of persons. It won’t pay to fly in the face of 
Providence for the sake of worldly men or 
worldly matters.” 

“Well, well, my lad,” said Mr. Kitchen, 
rather uneasily. “ Thou’st testified ; now hold 
thy peace. We all think well of Dr. Hewson’s 
skill in the healing art, and of his kindness in a 
carnal and unregenerate sense. That’s enough. ” 

“Nay, father,” persisted Matthew, dogged- 
ly, shaking his head and shooting a vicious 
side-glance from his bright black eyes, like a 
horse that has got the bit between his teeth, 
and fully understands all that that implies ; 
“ nay, that is not enough. When is Dr. Hew- 
son seen among the congregations of the godly? 
What is his religion ?” 

“ That’s no business of yours !” cried Donald, 
stoutly. He rose to his feet and faced Mat- 
thew, who, however, feigned not to notice him. 

“Is he not as one of the vain physicians — as 
those who hold by worldly science, which is 
foolishness, and neglect heavenly things, which 
only are wisdom?” 

“You come along, Anne!” said Donald, 
seizing his cap and taking me by the hand. 
“I sha’n’t stop here to hear your grandfather 
abused. Come along out this minute !” 

He had got hold of my little cloak by this 
time, and was trying to huddle me into it, with 
the hood trailing on the ground, and the hem 
round my shoulders. I was crying. Eliza, 
confused by her deafness, looked thoroughly 
bewildered; and Alice was vainly trying to 
make peace, but only succeeding in adding to 
the tumult. ~ ^ 

No persuasion could move Donald to remain. 
He Avas quite inflexible, and insisted so mas- 
terfully on Eliza’s dressing me and bringing 
me away, that Ave w'ere absolutely on the point 
of leaving the house, Avhen Mr. Kitchen said : 

“Young Sir, you are under my roof, and 
have partaken of my humble hospitality. I do 
not think this a becoming manner of taking 
your leave.” 

Donald faced round in a moment. 

“I don’t mean to behave badly to you. Sir,” 
he said; “but Avhat does your son pitch into 
Dr. HeAvson for? Dr. Hewson is a gentle- 
man ; and I think your son is very ignorant 
when he talks about science being ‘ foolishness,’ 
and things like that. I’m very much obliged 
to you and Alice for the butter-cakes,” added 
poor Donald, with a touch of bathos, “but I 
sha’n’t stay here to hear things said against Dr. 
IleAvson all the same. And you wouldn’t like 
to hear your friends spoken ill of yourself!” he 
exclaimed, turning full upon Matthew Avith a 
strength -of earnest indignation in his childish 
face that I shall never forget. “ And I call it 
mean and cowardly to speak ill of people be- 
hind their backs; especially people that have 
never done you any harm, but have been kind 
to you ; and really good people Avouldn’t do it. 


So all your talk is just cant, Mr. MatthcAV ; and 
if I Avas big enough I’d thrash you.” 

With this final burst he marched out of the 
place, holding me by the hand, and followed 
by Eliza, Avho Avas a mere image of confusion 
and dismay. 

I do not remember that much was said to us 
afterward on the subject of our stormy exit from 
Mr. Kitchen’s house. Grandfather, I think, 
held a theory akin to that of the old lady who 
laid it down as a rule that children should be 
treated Avith a little wholesome neglect. At all 
events, he ahvays avoided “making a fuss” 
about any of our sayings and doings, either to 
praise or to blame. 

But I have a distinct recollection of hearing 
the matter debated by the female members of 
the household. Each took a different vieAv. 
Eliza — Avho had the gentlest temper in the 
Avorld — mildly said that she thought Master 
Ayrlie had been a bit too hot ; MattheAv Kitch- 
en would testify, in season or out of season ; 
and, of course, it Avasn’t like as if he’d said any 
thing against Dr. Hewson in a Avorldly spirit. 

“I suppose you call it shoAving a lieaA’enly 
spirit, for a young belloAving calf like Mat 
Kitchen to set himself up in judgment on a 
gentleman like master ! And one as smoothed 
his OAvn mother’s last moments, and attended 
her as though she’d ha’ been the foremost lady 
in the land, and took no fee because they Avas 
poor and in trouble at the time. I’ve no pa- 
tience !” exclaimed Keturah, indignantly. And 
when Eliza meekly replied that no doubt Mat- 
theAv had been moved by a sense of duty, and 
that it must have been a painful trial to the 
natural man to speak as he had spoken, 
Keturah rejoined AA’ith withering contempt : 
“ Don’t you belieA'e a Avord on it ! His nat’ral 
man’s the kind o’ creetur as hates to be grate- 
ful ; that’s AA^hat it amounts to. It ain’t hard 
for fellows like Mat Kitchen to do their duty 
so long as they can make out as their duty is to 
pick all the hard Avords from the Bible and 
pitch ’em at folks’ heads ! To see them ^ind 
o’ people ready to burst Avi’ overbeai^ngness, 
and calling it religion ! Ugh ! it fairly turna 
my stummick!” 

Mrs. Abram, as far as I AAms able to under- 
stand her utterances, attributed MattheAv’s Avant 
of charity to the fact of his being a dissenter. 
She moaned a good deal, I remember, and 
seemed to think Ave Avere all — including grand- 
father — in a bad Avay. 

Soon after our visit to the Kitchens the time 
of my parents’ absence from home came to an 
end, and I had to return to Water-Eardley. 

I left Mortlands with the hope of soon seeing 
some of its inmates again ; for gi'andfather 
promised to bring Donald to see us, and he 
kept his Avord. 

I had a great deal to say to mother when I 
reached home. I found that she aa-us aAvare of 
Donald’s arrival, and that she remembered hav- 
ing seen his father. Captain Ayrlie, Avhen she 
Avas a little girl, and before he went to India. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


19 


“I think,” said I, one day, very gravely, 
“that when I grow up I shall marry Donald.” 

“Oh, indeed!” said mother, laughing, and 
stroking my hair with both her hands. “You 
have settled that, have you ?” 

“ Well, I told Donald* that I thought I should 
marry him.” 

“And what did he say?” 

“ lie said he thought he shouldn’t mind.” 

This speech was repeated that same after- 
noon to my father at dinner. He was im- 
mensely amused, and threw himself back in his 
chair tg laugh — a good deal to my confusion 
and perplexity. 

Of Donald’s visit to Water-Eardley I have 
retained no special remembrance. But I do 
recollect that my father asked grandfather’s 
leave to take him (Donald) to the races, whith- 
er I also was to go for the first time, and that 
grandfather peremptorily refused, and there was 
sharp discussion — almost a quarrel — about it. 
Also I remember that, before going back to 
Mortlands, Donald confided to me that if my 
father would' let that young black bull be turn- 
ed into the river-side meadow by himself, he 
thought he could lasso him as they do in South 
America. 

“For,” said he, argumentatively, “you know 
it’s more skill than strength that does it.” 

But my father’s objections to the experiment 
proved insuperable, and Donald went away with- 
out having lassoed the black bull. 


CHAPTER V. 

We went to the races — father, mother, and 
I — on the day on which the great cup was run 
for. That was a race famous throughout the 
length and breadth of the land ; and the beau- 
tiful Horsingham course W'as crowded with peo- 
ple from far and near. 

I scarcely recognized it under its changed 
aspect. The bright green turf, where I and 
Selina had gathered mushrooms many a morn- 
ing, was trampled and strewn with a squalid 
litter of orange-peel, and nut-shells, and flut- 
tering, crumpled papers. Merciless feet — brute 
and human — crushed the light elastic harebell 
and the short-stemmed daisy. There was a 
roar of voices in the air that ebbed and flowed 
like a tide — now louder, now lower. We were 
in an open carriage, in a good position to see 
every thing that passed. Strange, grotesque 
figures came and went in motley garb. I was 
amused and excited, and at the same time a 
little frightened by the unwonted throng. I 
remember once that vague feeling of terror to 
which I was subject took possession of me as 
the panting horses dashed past us, followed by 
the terrible roar of voices that seemed to rush 
along in their wake, as flame rushes through 
stubble. 

I pressed up close to mother in silence, and 
turned my face away from the surging, shout- 
ing crowd. Then there was a pause, and an- 


other rush and roar as the horses came back to 
the winning-post. And then they said that the 
race was over, and that the favorite had been 
beaten. 

Father had gone away before the great race 
began, and at its close he came back to the 
carriage, laughing and talking very excitedly. 
And he made Dodd pour out some Champagne, 
and told mother she ought to drink a glass to 
celebrate the occasion. And then he made me 
taste the foaming wine also, and said that he 
had been in luck. 

I remember — how well I remember! — that 
mother shook her head and told him that he 
had been naughty, and that he had promised 
not to bet. And father turned quite red and 
angry in a moment, and asked how could she 
talk such nonsense? It could not be called 
betting; merely a few shillings. But it had 
been a mere chance, the favorite not winning ; 
and so he had won ten times what he had 
risked. And why hadn’t she the good-nature 
to be pleased at seeing him in good spirits, in- 
stead of croaking and preaching ? 

This impressed me as much with surprise as 
pain. For I was happily unaccustomed to hear 
harsh words pass between my parents. The 
crowd began to move away from the course. 
Our horses were put to, and we drove slowly 
away amidst the press of other vehicles. As 
we were departing,, father said to me, giving me 
a kiss, “Well, Anne, and how did you like the 
races?” • 

I answered that I liked it all, very much, es- 
pecially theiittle boy with -the blue frock on, 
and the long white stockings that had sparkling 
silver things all over them, and the dog who 
danced on his hind-legs when the organ played. 
But that I wished those men that rode on the 
pretty horses would not whip them so, for I was 
sure the poor horses ran as fast as ever they 
could; and, for my part, I thought it was 
cruel. 

But to this father made answer impatiently 
that I W'as a little goose, and that the horses 
liked the excitement of racing very much — 
which, however, I secretly doubted. 

The air and the wdne, which I w’^as quite un- 
used to, made me drowsy, and I fell fast asleep. 
I did not awake until we were driving in at the 
gate of Water-Eardley. * I found myself ten- 
derly covered wdth a warm shawl and w'ith a 
cushion under my head. As I opened my eyes, 
I saw father holding mother’s hand in his, and 
heard him say, “My darling Lucy, what is the 
use of making promises ? Can’t you trust me?” 

Donald’s arrival at Horsingham had been a 
great event in my life, and his departure left a 
blank for a long time. The prospect of his 
going away drove the races out of my mind. 
He W'as to return to Mortlands, but not until 
the midsummer holidays. Next summer ! It 
seemed w'orlds away. You might almost as 
well have talked to me of next century. 

I w'ell remember a parting scene that took 
place the night before Donald returned to school. 


20 


ANNE EURNESS. 


I had been spending the day at Mortlands. We 
children had revisited our favorite spots in the 
garden, and I had received injunctions from 
Donald as to the administration of a good deal 
of his property in Robinson Crusoe’s Island dur- 
ing his absence. Also I had promised to look 
after some guinea-pigs he had purchased. lie 
had at first had some intention of carrying them 
to school in his pocket, but grandfather dissuad- 
ed him. So the guinea-pigs were left under 
Havilah’s charge, subject to my occasional su- 
pervision. I was not fond of the guinea-pigs. 
They had a peculiar mobility of nose which dis- 
tressed me. And my private opinion was that 
they were not really atfectionate. But I prom- 
ised to be kind to them for Donald’s sake. It 
had been a busy morning, and after dinner we 
all sat round the fire, gathered together for the 
first time that day. Grandfather and Mrs. 
Abram were in their usual places. I was seat- 
ed on my little stool with Tib on my knee ; and 
Donald stood by grandfather's chair. Grand- 
father had one hand on the boy’s head, and was 
talking to him kindly and earnestly. As I 
looked up at the two it suddenly struck me that 
Donald, who seemed so tall and strong and 
wise to me, was but a little fellow beside grand- 
father after all. I began to cry at the image I 
bad conjured up of Donald, friendless and un- 
protected, all those many miles away, among 
big, rough boys, who, perhaps, might even beat 
and ill-use him, as Jackson had beaten Steenie. 

Grandfather lifted me up from my stool on 
to his knee, and soothed and comforted me with 
great gentleness and patience ; but my tears 
continued to flow, and my sobs went on cres- 
cendo. I was vexed at Donald’s apparent in- 
difference, and I had a vague notion that if I 
cried very much it would pain Donald, and 
punish him for not being so sorry to go as I 
was at his going. I was perfectly aware that 
this feeling was evil, and I afterward suffered 
severely from remorse, for my conscience, as I 
have said, w.as as inevitable and implacable as 
fate ; nevertheless, I yielded to it, and contin- 
ued to utter ever-increasing sounds of lament- 
ation. 

“ Come, Anne,” said Donald at length, much 
disconcerted by my convulsive grief. “I say, 
Anne, don’t cry any more. What’s the good ? 
Come ! Have a snap.” 

With that he drew forth and presented to me 
a species of confection popular in Hdrsingham. 
It was a treacly kind of cake, full of holes, like 
a very thin section of petrified sponge, and it 
was known as “gingerbread snap,” or, more 
briefly, as “snap.” 

Donald, in all good faith, held out a sticky 
snap, which had grown flaccid from a prolonged 
residence in his pocket. But far from accept- 
ing this singular panacea for woe, I clenched 
my little fist and struck him as hard a blow as 
I could with it — to his profound astonishment. 

“Little Nancy !” said grandfather, in a deep, 
concentrated voice, which had the instant effect 
of making me try to check my sobs — still them 


at once I could not. They had got beyond my 
control. “Little Nancy!” I trembled, con- 
science-stricken. 

“ See now what all your affection is worth ! 
You are sorry that Donald is going away, and 
that is natural. But you are also angry — an- 
gry that he too does not scream and sob and 
distress every one around him. And so, in 
your selfish desire to vex him, because you are 
vexed, you let yourself be ungrateful and vio- 
lent and foolishly ill-tempered. I could not 
have believed this of my little Nancy.” 

I was so overwhelmed by the essential truth 
of this reproof, so confused at my childish mind 
being thus plainly read, so stricken to the heart 
by the thought that now Donald, seeing what 
manner of little girl I really was, would love 
me no longer, that I slid down from grand- 
father’s knee on to the hearth-rug, burying my 
face in an agony of sorrow and mortification, 
the bitterness of which, while it lasted, I am 
inclined to believe has never been surpassed 
throughout my subsequent life. 

There was a silent pause that seemed to 
last for an hour, and that was only broken by 
Mrs. Abram inarticulately murmuring something 
about the Evil One — she habitually attributed 
all troubles to his direct and personal interfer- 
ence in the affairs of mankind — and by my sti- 
fled sobs. 

Then I felt Donald kneel down close by my 
side, and he whispered in my ear, “ Come, 
Anne, I say, don’t cry any more ; I shall come 
back at midsummer, you know. And I don’t 
mind your hitting me ; it didn’t hurt me a bit. 
Come!” 

“I d — didn’t wa — a — ant the snap. But I 
— I — I’ve been so naughty. You’ll n — never, 
n — never love me any mo — o — ore ! ” 

“ Oh yes I shall ; all right. Come, don’t cry. 
Here, Anne, I say, do have a snap.” 

I accepted the snap on purely sentimental 
grounds, for I did not in the least Avant to eat 
it, and clasped it convulsively in one hand, 
while I tried to wipe my eyes on the inaccessi- 
ble pocket-handkerchief with the other. Heav- 
en knows my grief was genuine enough, and 
yet at that very moment I began to lick off a 
few tears that had trickled down at the corners 
of my mouth, and to speculate wonderingly on 
the phenomenon of their saltness. 

Of course I Avas finally kissed and forgiven ; 
and I sat close beside Donald all the rest of 
the et^ening, holding his hand in mine. Once, 
in the fullness of my gratitude for reinstatement 
into his affections, I raised his broad sturdy 
little fingers to my lips, and kissed them hum- 
bly. And I recollect observing, as I did so, 
that they smelled of slate-pencil. 

He Avent aAvay the next day on the top of 
the mail-coach, looking very small up there, 
I thought, beside the burly men in great-coats. 
And for a long time, or for a time that seemed 
long to me then, I missed him sorely. When 
the spring began to clothe the trees Avith green 
again, I began to talk of Donald’s return, and 


A2sNE FURNESS. 


21 


to look forward to it eagerly. Grandfather did 
not say much on the subject, but I knew very 
well that he, too, would be glad to see the boy 
again. He was a favorite with the whole house- 
hold at Mortlands. Keturah had treated him 
with unexampled indulgence. I remember 
that my sense of justice had many a time been 
outraged by the difference made between him 
and me in sundry matters of tearing and spoil- 
ing clothes, etc. I could see no such funda- 
mental diversity between a rent in Donald’s 
troAvsers, and a splotch of ink or garden-mould 
on my pinafore, as made the one a pardona- 
ble peccadillo, and the other a serious lapse 
from virtue. But, although my reason rebelled 
against accepting the statement frequently made 
by Mrs. Abram — “ Donald is a boy, love ; boys 
ahvays tear their clothes ; it’s in the nature of 
them” — as any satisfactory excuse for condon- 
ing his destructiveness (since it Avas clear that 
it was equally in the nature of me to dirty 
my pinafore and crush my straAv bonnet out 
of shape), I bore Donald no grudge for the 
preference shoAvn to him. I loved him too 
Avell to be jealous of the love that Avas given to 
him ; though I think it likely that I might have 
been jealous of the love that he gave, had any 
competitor in his affections come in my Avay in 
those days. 

Be that as it may, every one liked Donald at 
Mortlands, and looked forAvard to his return. 
But there came a sad disappointment. Grand- 
father read us a letter one morning from a cer- 
tain Colonel Fisher, Avho was a distant relative 
of Captain Ayrlie, saying that he had obtained 
leave from the boy’s father to take him to Scot- 
land for the holidays, and that he thought it 
might be advantageous to the boy to make 
friends among his OAvn people. A Aveek or two 
afterAvard came a letter from Captain Ayrlie 
himself, written a long time previously, to the 
effect that his comrade and third cousin Avas 
returning home from India Avith his family, and 
AA'ould look after Donald, and receive him dur- 
ing the holidays. And Captain Ayrlie added 
that he hoped Colonel Fisher would reach En- 
gland in time to save grandfather the bore of 
having the boy in his house at all, as it must 
necessarily be a nuisance to so quiet a house- 
hold as Mortlands to have a noisy school-boy 
suddenly brought into their midst. And it was 
only his (Captain Ayrlie’s) reliance on grand- 
father’s old friendship that had ever embold- 
ened him to ask such a thing, in the diflSculty 
of knoAving to Avhom to intrust the boy. Great 
Avas the outcry when tliese disappointing mis- 
sives arrived. As for me, although in honest 
truth I believe that time had already begun to 
make Donald’s image fainter in my mind, I Avas 
in despair. It was my first great disappoint- 
ment. I wanted grandfather to Avrite and de- 
mand Donald without delay. 

“Tut, little Nancy,” said grandfather, sIoaa'- 
ly. “It Avill be better for the boy to live a 
healthy boy life among his OAvn kith and kin in 
Scotland than to come here. Yes ; he Avould 


have found it drearier and duller as time Avent 
on. Unless, indeed — Dry your eyes, little 
Nancy ; I am sorry, too.” 

Tavo events soon happened to occupy my at- 
tention. The first event was the birth of a lit- 
tle brother ; the second, my consequent going 
to school. The simple lessons that mother Avas 
used to give me were all interrupted by baby's 
arrival. Mother was not strong for a long time 
after his birth, and I Avas banished to my nurs- 
ery during the greater part of the day. All the 
happiness that home had ever afforded me Avas 
gained in my parents’ society. Debarred from 
that, Water-Eardley Manor was but an uncon- 
genial place to me. I could not be always at 
Mortlands; and, if I could have been, there 
Avere no means there of prosecuting my edu- 
cation ; so it was settled that I should go to 
school. 

There was a lady who kept a boarding-school 
in a fine old-fashioned house in Horsingham, 
on the outskirts of the tOAvn, and not very far 
from the race-course. I Avas to be Avhat was 
called a weekly boarder, going home — or to my 
grandfather’s house, which was nearer — every 
Saturday, and returning to school on Monday 
morning. I looked forward to this change (as 
well as I can recall my feeling on the subject) 
AA'ith, on the whole, more pleasure than pain. 
But it was not without a sinking at the heart, 
and some bitter tears, that I said “good-by” to 
mother, and gave a farcAvell kiss to my little 
baby brother sleeping on her breast. 

CHAPTER VI. 

There is no need, for the clear understand- 
ing of the rest of these pages, that I should de- 
scribe my school life at length. It Avas calm 
and monotonous. I can compare it to the 
course of the little streamlets that intersected 
some of the grass-lands on ray father’s farm. 
The natural channel was banked up, and guid- 
ed Avithout being distorted altogether from its 
original direction. Little ripples sometimes 
ruffled it; deeper pools lay brown and silent 
beneath its banks ; blue forget-me-nots made 
the eye glad Avith their beauty here and there ; 
there were reaches of weedless grass, green and 
• smooth ; and again there were tangles of hem- 
lock, and spear-like clusters of pithy rushes. 
SloAvly the little streamlet slid ouAvard wdth a 
steady, secure current, until it joined the Avider 
river, and must thenceforth floAV through calm 
and storm unguided to the sea. 

The greater part of my life during eight years 
Avas spent at school. Our governess, Mrs. 
Lane, Avas a Avidowed gentlewoman ; tall, slen-,. 
der, stately, Avith a soft voice and a stern eye. 
To her the school was the Avorld. Had she 
been the matron of a jail, or head-nurse in a 
hospital, I am inclined to believe that the uni- 
verse Avould speedily hav’e presented itself to 
her mind as all jail or all hospital. She had a 
passion for systematizing such as I have met 


oo 


ANNE FURNESS. 


Avith in no other Englishwoman. Her rules 
were inflexible, because they were the strictly 
logical result of her principles. Given the prem- 
ise, Mrs. Lane’s deductions must infallibly fol- 
low. Her intellect, though shallow, Avas very 
clear. She always reminded me of a fine frosty 
day: cloudless, pale sky, bright sunshine (de- 
lightful to look upon, impossible to bask in), 
and a little sharp nip pervading the serene at- 
mosphere. Fortunately it was among Mrs. 
Lane’s principles that ample and generous 
nourishment Avas necessary for young groAving 
creatures. We Avere Avell fed and Avell lodged. 

IIoAv Avell I remember Mrs. Abram (avIio, 
poor soul! had once been nearly starved to 
death at school herself) expressing the great- 
est solicitude about my diet, and making a sug- 
gestion, unknoAvn to grandfather, that I should 
be provided with a tin case of captain’s biscuits 
to stave off the pangs of hunger, should I find 
myself reduced to a Ioav ebb. I very much 
approved this scheme, and Avas eager to adopt 
it, Avith one trifling alteration, namely, that the 
tin case should contain, not captain’s biscuits, 
but “ snaps” and macaroons. But Mrs. Abram 
Avould not hear of either ; partly because maca- 
roons and snaps Avere bilious, as she said ; but 
also, as I Avas secretly convinced, because they 
Avere nice! HoAvever, I had not been many 
Avecks at school before it became obvious to all 
Avho looked on me that no such provision as 
Mrs. Abram had contemplated could be need- 
ful. I have mentioned that my health was deli- 
cate when I Avas a young child. But I grcAv 
stronger year by year, and I have been through- 
out my adult life a singularly healthy aa'O- 
man. 

The feAV events that marked the course of 
those eight years Avhich I have said I spent 
chiefly at school may be briefly presented before 
the little banked-in riA'ulet leaves its straight, 
safe channels for the wider flood. 

Selina, my nurse-maid, got married, and Avho 
should her bridegroom be but Donald’s old en- 
emy, Mat Kitchen ! I felt there Avas somehoAV 
a suitability in the match, although I Avas 
A’aguely sorry for Selina, too. It had been 
brought about in this wise : My father had 
bought a pretty little pony-phaeton as a present 
for mother, out of his Avinnings on the day of 
the great race which I Avas taken to see. Some 
accidental injury having been done to this vehi- 
cle, Mat Kitchen Avas sent out toWater-Eardley 
by his grandfather, Mr. Green, the coach-build- 
er, to see Avhat repairs were necessary to it. On 
this occasion, and on several subsequent occa- 
sions, he saAv Selina, and Avas attracted by her. 
IMat Avas by this time receiving good Avages, 
being, I believe, skilled in his trade. Then, 
too, he had the prospect of an inheritance from 
his grandfather, and Avas considered altogether 
an eligible match. 

“I Avas A'exed with your father for buying 
me that phaeton,” said mother once, thought- 
fully. “ I said I Avas sure that money got by 
betting Avould bring no blessing with it. But 


it has brought good luck to Selina, at all events. 

It has got her a husband.” 

Such amount of good luck as Avas involved 
in marrying Mat Kitchen certainly did fall to 
Selina’s share. My parents helped to furnish 
her little house for her. I Avas taken to see it 
before the w'edding ; and there I saAv the bride- 
groom-elect, looking, as I thought, more sullen 
than ever. He had shaved his dark upper lip, 
and Avore a fringe of black AA’hiskers. He eyed 
the furniture in a glum manner, and let fall no 
syllable of gratitude or gratification for the 
presents Selina had received. I could not help 
fancying — probably erroneously — that he kept 
remembering the evening when Donald and I 
had taken tea at his father’s house, and secretly 
enjoying the recollection of having made him- 
self so unpleasant. But he called me “little 
miss,” and was not uncivil. Alice Kitchen was 
there too. She begged me to go and see her 
and her father some day, Avhen Mat should be 
married. I did go one afternoon on my Avay 
from school to Mortlands, accompanied by Eliza. 

I had discovered — I can not now tell exactly 
by what means— -Avith the intuitive quickness 
of a child’s observation, that Eliza was afiSicted 
at Matthew Kitchen’s marriage, and Avould have 
liked to marry him herself. Also I noticed that 
Mr. Kitchen and Alice seemed sorry for her, 
and made much of her, and I dreAv the conclu- 
sion that they Avould have preferred to have her 
for a daughter and sister rather than Selina. 
Mr. Kitchen’s little parlor looked exactly the 
same as of yore, even to the Avhite and gold el- 
ephant, Avith the rusty steel pen in his castle. 

I had some delicious butter-cakes, baked ex- 
pressly for me. And they talked of Donald. 
Mr. Kitchen observed that he (Donald) Avas “ a 
high-mettled young youth;” and seemed to 
think the phrase a happy one, repeating it more 
than once. 

And now, as I look back, I perceive that 
during my school life the image of Donald had 
been fading, fading, until it had become the 
mistiest outline of a memory. Were it not 
for hearing him spoken of, I should, I feel sure, 
have forgotten him at this time altogether. 
Should the reader ask, “ How, then, is it that 
you have been able to give so many minute de- 
tails of your first acquaintance Avith the boy ?” 
I shall reply by another question. Do you not 
now, O reader, if your years number more 
than some tAvoscore or so, recall the events of 
your childhood more clearly than you could 
have done at eighteen ? 

In the leafy summer-time aa'C see only the 
screen of foliage that borders our patliAvay. 
Every hedgeroAV is full of life. Every branch 
bears its bloom. But Avhen autumn, like some 
grave and Avise enchanter of old time, touches 
the Avorld with his golden AVand, and the trans- 
muted leaves fall yellow from the bough, avc 
look back through the open tracery, and the 
landscape Ave have traversed lies softly clear 
beneath our gaze. 

The seasons succeeded each other, and my 


ANNE FURNESS. 


23 


life continued to be monotonous and tranquil 
outwardly. Within there was growth and 
struggle and change ; as, I suppose, there must 
be in all young souls. Those by whom I was 
surrounded remained unaltered ; or they altered 
so gradually that I scarcely as yet perceived any 
change in them. Only one thing I observed in 
my visits home ; namely, that father had quite 
fallen into the practice of going to the races ev- 
ery spring and autumn. Sometimes he even 
went uAvay to our county town to attend a great 
race there. Also I noticed that grandfather, 
who used to inveigh so heartily against horse- 
racing, had now become gravely silent on the 
subject at Water-Eardley ; or, at all events, he 
was so whenever I was present. Once, howev- 
er, on going into our dining-room, after dinner, 
with a message from mother to my grandfather, 
who had been spending the day with us, I found 
the two men in a vehement dispute over their 
wine. Father was hot and flushed and angry. 
Grandfather’s face was as stern and set as 
stone, only his gray eyes sparkled. As I en- 
tered I heard father say, sneeringly, “ I wonder. 
Dr. Hewson, that you, who have such very lib- 
eral views on most subjects, should be so preju- 
diced on this point!” Whereto grandfather 
made answer, “ I do not think, George, that 
you in the least degree apprehend what my 
views are on any important subject. At least, 
let me assure you that my views do not include 
proclaiming full liberty of blackguardism to 
blackguards.” 

Then they both saw me standing scared in 
the doorway, and ceased speaking. My mes- 
sage put an end to the discussion, for it was to 
beg grandfather to come and look at my little 
brother Harold. The child had been ailing for 
some days ; and mother said he seemed fevered 
and uneasy in his sleep ; and she was anxious 
about him. 

Ah! I am coming to a dark place in my 
young life ; to a valley of shadow, watered by a 
fountain of tears. My little baby brother! 
How we watch the sweet round cheeks growing 
hot and crimson, and listen to the piteous little 
cry, “Oh, mamma; oh, mamma; Harry so 
sir sty r' 

Almost more piteous is it, when he is for a 
time free from suifering, to see the little creat- 
ure laugh and try to play his old romping games 
with me, and open wide appealing eyes when 
he finds that his baby strength no longer suffices 
to do as he has been used to do. For he grows 
weaker and weaker, and wastes and fades day 
by day. And at length the end comes. Care 
and skill, and the mother’s sleepless devotion, 
can not save him. He falls softly into a slum- 
ber, with one little wasted hand clasping my 
finger, and the other laid upon his innocent 
lips, like a symbolic statue of silence. And the 
silence comes down solemnly — solemnly and 
sweetly. The waxen face changes to marble, 
and tho tiny hand grows chill. I am brought 
face to face with an awful, irrevocable fact, that 
is blind and deaf to my sorrow. 


After her baby’s death, mother was ill for 
some time ; ailing for some time longer. She 
and father went away to a sea-side place : very 
far away it seemed to my imagination. In my 
parents’ absence I spent every Saturday and 
Sunday at Mortlands. I went with Mrs. Abram 
to a musty-smelling church, with damp, stuffy 
pews, and a black, shining, wooden gallery. 
And there a clergyman preached long sermons, 
“full of sound and fury, signifying” — many 
things which I am averse to contemplate, even at 
this present period of my life ; but which seemed 
to afford Mrs. Abram a gloomy and ghoul-like 
satisfaction. Hideous images of the charnel- 
house, from which my soul revolted. JIow he 
harped on despair and dread, as if they made 
sweet music ! No word of human love and 
charity can I recall that issued from his lips in 
the pulpit. “Good-will toward men” had 
been omitted from his gospel. That is not 
what the angel voices sang in his ears. Glad 
tidings of good things were revealed to no mor- 
tal by his clerical voice. Dressed in a little 
brief authority, he dealt out death and dam- 
nation to all and sundry. But when he de- 
scended to the vestry, he grew milder ; and by 
the time he had donned his coat, and reached 
the church-door, he became human, and held 
his little children gently by the hand. I even 
heard that in sickness and poverty no one was 
more benevolent than he ; that he gave liberal- 
ly out of his slender means, and grudged neither 
time nor trouble to his needy parishioners. All 
which things, as I grew older, I kept in my 
heart, and pondered them. 

Mother came back from the sea-side with re- 
stored health. All fell into its usual track at 
Water-Eardley, as it used to be before our 
pretty blossom came and peeped upon the 
earth, and then folded his soft leaves again for- 
ever. At Mrs. Lane’s I did not form any of the 
romantic friendships which are popularly sup- 
posed to make a necessary part of a school- 
girl’s experience. I was not very gregarious 
by nature. I was fastidious in my choice of 
companionship. And then, doubtless, I was 
devoid of many qualities which insure popular- 
ity. I had very few acquaintances in Horsing- 
ham. Grandfather, as I have said, had lived 
in almost total seclusion from society for as 
long as I can remember. And the years, as 
they advanced, rather confirmed than dimin- 
ished his dislike to mix with the world. My 
father’s friends and relations lived chiefly in the 
country. Still there were one or two houses in 
Horsingham which I occasionally visited. Sir 
Peter Bunny’s was one of these houses. Sir 
Peter had once been mayor, and was knighted 
on the occasion of heading some deputation 
during his mayoralty. He was a thin, hand- 
some old gentleman, with dark eyebrows and 
white hair and small features. His portrait 
was exhibited one year at the Royal Academy ; 
and the legend ran in Horsingham that enthusi- 
astic visitors would point it out to each other as 
the very type and ideal of an aristocratic gen- 


24 


ANNE FURNESS. 


tleman of ancient lineage, and would turn to 
their catalogues and say, “Bunny! Sir Peter 
Bunny! Of the Shropshire Bunnys, I won- 
der?'’ in a very genteel and knowing manner. 
But we Horsingham folks knew that Sir Peter 
made his money as a maltster, and that Lady 
Bunny’s mother kept a boarding-house at Scar- 
borough ; and that despite the big coat of arms 
on their carriage, and the crest blazoned on ev- 
ery possible and impossible article of furniture 
in the house, the Bunnys are, in the pure eyes 
of county society, “nobody” — mere impalpable 
figments of the vulgar brain. They, and their 
man-servant, and their maid-servant, their cat- 
tle — and, in short, every thing save the stranger 
within their gates (who is usually, in his own 
opinion, somebody, and eats Sir Peter’s dinners 
in a manner calculated to prove it), being in any 
polite sense the mere baseless fabric of a vision. 

Despite this Berkeleian theory of the Bunnys’ 
existence, they were greatly liked and respect- 
ed. Their youngest daughter was a school- 
fellow of mine, and I sometimes took tea at 
her father’s house, and spent a quiet evening 
there. Also, I had made the acquaintance of 
Mr. Arkwright, the curate of Mrs. Abram’s fa- 
vorite clergyman, whose direful ministrations I 
have spoken of ; and of Mrs. Arkwright and the 
little Arkwrights — and the name of these latter 
is Legion. I never met Mr. Arkwright with- 
out being possessed by a yearning pity for him. 
The phrase sounds absurd, in our relative posi- 
tions ; nevertheless, it is strictly true. My 
more mature judgment leads me to doubt 
whether the case were one calling for all the 
compassion I lavished on it. But as a very 
young girl — little more than a child when I first 
knew him — I was unfeignedly sorry for the 
Reverend Edwin Arkwright in my heart. He 
was so very poor, and he had so many young 
children, and his wife, though doubtless the 
partner of his cares, appeared to me so little 
calculated to be the soother of his sorrows. 
He was known by all Horsingham to be in 
debt ; and yet no one could blame him for 
extravagance. I once said to Mrs. Lane (I 
scarcely know how my speech was brought 
about, for my communications with her were 
rarely impulsive or confidential), “ How dread- 
ful it must be to be in debt ! To feel that you 
have had people’s goods, and have not paid for 
them!” And Mrs. Lane looked at me very 
strangely, and said, Yes ; she supposed it must 
be dreadful ; and hoped I should always con- 
tinue to think in the same way. 

A day or two afterward I was passing Mrs. 
Lane’s sitting-room, the door of which was ajar, 
and I was surprised and startled to hear grand- 
father’s voice within. 

“We will settle the whole account now, if 
you please, Mrs. Lane,” he said. “Three-quar- 
ters’ schooling are due, are they not ?” 

Before I could gather presence of mind to 
move away, the door of the sitting-room was 
fully opened, and grandfather and Mrs. Lane 
came out into the hall. 


“Anne, how pale you are!” exclaimed my 
governess. She looked quite alarmed, and 
made a movement forward to take hold of me. 
Grandfather gave me a searching glance, and 
said, “ May Anne come home with me to Mort- 
lands now, Mrs. Lane? I know that it is out 
of the regular course of things ; but it will only 
anticipate the half holiday by one day, and I 
shall feel obliged to you if you will permit it.” 

Mrs. Lane at once assented. I think she 
fancied that my grandfather’s medical eye de- 
tected some incipient illness in me. But there 
was none ; I had merely been startled and 
seized upon by a vague feeling of uneasiness, 
which had immediately translated itself in my 
countenance. 

Grandfather took me home to his house ; 
and as soon as we arrived at Mortlands he 
bade me follow him into his study. I obeyed 
with a beating heart. I could recall no such 
summons having happened previously. He kiss- 
ed me and placed me in a chair, and then sat 
down opposite to me. 

“Anne,” said he, “what did you hear me 
say to Mrs. Lane ? I saw in your face that 
you had been shocked and startled.” 

I told him what I had heard ; adding, “ How 
could it be, dear grandfather, that so much 
should be owing to Mrs. Lane ? I had no idea 
— I thought — ” 

I stopped with twitching lips. An attempt 
to utter another syllable would have resulted in 
a burst of tears, and I was resolved not to give 
way to that weakness without a struggle to re- 
tain my self-command. 

“ Little Nancy, I did not know that the mon- 
ey was owing until yesterday. When I did 
know it, I got your mother to let me pay it — 
for her.” 

There was an almost imperceptible pause be- 
fore the two last syllables, but my ear detected, 
my mind marked it. However, I did not press 
grandfather with any further questions at that 
time. He told me that all was well at Water- 
Eardley, and reassured me on the whole. 

“By-the-way, little Nancy,” he said, just be- 
fore dismissing me from the study, “ when you 
go home you will miss the hunters. That is to 
say, you might miss them if you chanced to go 
near the stable ; or the servants might speak 
to you of them. In any case, do not say any 
thing to your father about them. It is a sore 
subject.” 

“ What has happened to the hunters ?” I 
asked, wonderingly. “Are they dead?” 

“No ; they are sold.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

From that time forth began a new era for 
me. Very shortly after the incident I have 
spoken of in the last chapter I was removed 
from Mrs. Lane’s and returned to Water-Eard- 
ley. I was then between eighteen and nine- 
teen. I am inclined to believe. that I was more 


ANNE FURNESS. 


25 


cliildisli in some respects, and much less so in 
others, than most girls of my age. The sort of 
foretaste of the world — the preliminary experi- 
ence of its buffets and struggles, its victories 
and defeats, which is supplied to a child by the 
competition of brothers and sisters, I had never 
had. Even my school life had not altogether 
stood in the stead of it. But, on the other 
hand, I had escaped the most imminent danger 
that usually threatens an only child : I had nev- 
er been “ spoiled.” But for this blessing I have 
to thank my grandfather’s firmness and wisdom. 
I had been accustomed to appeal to him and 
to lean on him with absolute trust throughout 
my young life ; and he now stood by me with 
counsel and help when I had to face a new as- 
pect of things, and to learn some lessons which 
only a practical contact with the difficulties of 
existence can teach. 

My father was sorely pressed for money. I 
had known that it must be so, when I heard 
that he had sold his hunters : the beautiful, do- 
cile creatures in whom he had taken such pride. 
And this, too, painfully explained why there 
were such long arreai-s of payment to be made 
for my schooling. But of what had caused my 
father’s need I had no conception. Grandfa- 
ther forbore to tell me. But poor mother, in 
her distress and her yearning to confide in a 
loving heart, soon revealed to me that my fa- 
ther had of late been involving himself deeply 
in what are called “turf speculations.” In 
plain terms, he had been betting and gambling 
and losing, not recklessly — he was but too deep- 
ly plunged in anxiety as to the result of the 
risk he was runhing — but infatuatedly. It 
would be more correct to say that mother’s 
face and voice infected me with apprehension 
and grief, than that my intelligence fully real- 
ized all that w'as implied in the word “gam- 
bler.” 

“ Then, mother dear,” said I, attempting to 
apply what little lore of life I had gleaned 
from story-books to the present case, “ I sup- 
pose we are ruined?” 

It appeared, however, that we were by no 
means ruined. Mother even smiled at my sol- 
emn face as I said the word ; but her smile was 
like a pale sunbeam struggling through rain 
clouds. No ; we were not ruined. Father 
might even have avoided the sale of his hunters 
by raising money in another way ; but he had 
resolved, mother said, to make a sacrifice which 
should fall on him personally, and on no one else. 
And was not that noble and generous? Mo- 
ther bade me note what liberal atonement he 
had made. And, after all, father had not been 
so much to blame ; he had been led on and on 
by a run of good luck. And he had been per- 
suaded and tempted by others : wicked men 
who had neither pity nor principle. But per- 
haps this taste of misfortune was a blessing in 
disguise : it would show father, before it was 
too late, what gulfs of ruin lay hidden beneath 
that smiling surface of good-fellowship. He 
had promised, he had given his word to bet 


no more. He was so good, so aifectionate, so 
frank in acknowledging his error. 

I watched mother’s face thoughtfully while 
she spoke. When she had finished, finding 
that her countenance revealed something not 
altogether in harmony with her words, I said, 
“ Then why should you be so sorry and so anx- 
ious, mother darling ? If father has given his 
word, that is enough. You need not be afraid 
any more ; need you, mother?” 

“ No, my dearest. You are right. I ought 
to have faith in my own darling ; and I have, 
Anne. You must not fancy that I doubt fa- 

But her speech was closed by a sigh that 
seemed to come from the depths of her heart. 

However, it seemed as if her apprehensions 
had in truth been excessive, for the storm 
cleared away, and left, as far as I could tell, no 
permanent disaster behind it. No comfort that 
we had been accustomed to enjoy in our home 
was absent from it. The empty stalls in the 
stable, and the dismissal of one of the grooms, 
alone reminded us that we had narrowly es- 
caped a far greater misfortune. My old friend 
Dodd, for whom I had always retained a kind- 
ly feeling, left us about a year after my return 
home. He married, and set up in a little road- 
side inn about seven miles from Horsingham, 
which inn, from its situation in close proximity 
to the main highway, did a thriving business 
with carters and carriers, at all seasons of the 
year, and with stray travelers during the race- 
time. 

Dodd was replaced at Water-Eardley by a 
smart, sly, undersized creature, who had been 

for some time employed about Lord B ’s 

training stable. I remember father mentioning 
this fact as being a great recommendation when 
the man was first engaged, and grandfather 
making him very angry by replying, “Mercy 
on us ! The fellow comes armed with a regu- 
lar diploma from the school of perdition, does 
he?” 

But grandfather seldom permitted himself 
such utterances as this. He had the talent of 
holding his tongue. (How rare and how pre- 
cious a poAver!) He had a sincere desire to 
make peace. He knew that nothing is more 
likely to check the struggling growth of amend- 
ment than the cold breath of distrust. He en- 
couraged my mother — he was cordial and pleas- 
ant as ever with my father. It seemed as if all 
Avere still as it had been. But it Avas only seem- 
ing. 

Among other changes Avhich I observed in 
my father, noAV that I lived constantly at home, 
Avas a listless inditFerence to the pursuits he had 
formerly been interested in ; his farm and his 
stock were merely a care and a trouble. He 
sold off all the beasts he had of a famous breed 
of cattle (more than one silver prize-cup Avon 
from county competitions glittered on the side- 
board in our dining-room), and replaced them 
Avilh common animals. 

I could not for the life of me have told Avhy, 


26 


ANNE FURNESS. 


but even to my inexperienced eyes the whole 
aspect of the farm was changed. The Germans 
have a homely proverb of rural life: “The 
master’s footstep manures the field best.” On 
our fields the master’s footstep rarely fell. By 
degrees father entirely relinquished one farm, 
consisting 'of arable land, which he had rented, 
and retained only the grazing meadows. Fa- 
ther always had some excellent reason to give 
for every change that he made. He really was 
an enlightened farmer, and understood his busi- 
ness very thoroughly. This made it almost im- 
possible for any one to remonstrate with him as 
to what he was doing, and what he was leaving 
undone. “You will allow, I suppose,” father 
would say, sharply, “ that I know something 
about land, and something about stock !” This 
being indisputable, he would add, “And I pre- 
sume you will give me credit for using my 
knowledge to my own interest. A man will 
care for that, at all events, whatever else he 
cares for.” 

Interest ! His own interest ? How strange 
it is that men should go on repeating the par- 
rot-like formula, whose truth is contradicted by 
every day’s experience ! There is no petty pas- 
sion in the human breast but will override “ in- 
terest,” in the sense generally attached to that 
word. 

Father was constantly saying that farming 
was such a slow way of making money ; that 
what you gained one year you lost the next ; 
and making other grumbling speeches, which 
— I confess it — irritated me terribly. Once 
my mother exclaimed, very innocently, “But, 
Geotge dear, what need is there for us to 
‘ make money’ at all ? Have we not enough ? 
Heaven knows I don’t long for riches !”. And 
father was out of humor the whole day after- 
ward. Alas ! that w'as coming to be a frequent 
occurrence. Father never had sweetness of 
temper comparable to mother’s. He was what 
people call “hasty.” But then whosoever 
made that remark almost invariably added, “ It 
was over in a minute.” For my part, when I 
hear such a characteristic mentioned in the 
way of praise, I am inclined to ask, “With 
whom is it over in a minute ? With the hasty 
man himself, or the object of his sudden wrath ?” 
Wounds given in haste will often take long to 
heal. But, at least, in former times when fa- 
ther was angry, those around him usually com- 
prehended wherefore he was so. He had been 
frank-natiired too, and disdainful of equivoca- 
tion ; but he was changing, changing, changing, 
day by day. 

I am dwelling chiefly on the internal phases 
through which our home life passed, so to speak. 
These were mostly hidden from all who were 
not dwellers at Water-Eardley. The superfi- 
cial part of our existence was, I imagine, much 
the same as ever in the eyes of strangers. 

My parents, perhaps, did not go from home 
as much as they had been used to do when I 
was a child. But my father had a large circle 
of relatives in the neighborhood, and we visited 


a good deal ; much more, indeed, than was 
agreeable to me. For, to say truth, I did not 
find all these tribes of second and third cousins 
by any means congenial to me. I had, to say 
the least, a distaste for their society, and I 
have reason to believe that the distaste was 
heartily reciprocated. 

The few acquaintances I had made during my 
school-days in Horsingham I retained. Lady 
Bunny called upon my mother, and my mother 
returned her visit ; and there ensued dinners at 
Sir Peter’s house and at my father’s; and a 
dance at the former place, on which occasion 
both Barbara Bunny, my late school-fellow, 
and I were introduced to the fashionable world 
of Horsingham. But this was a rare dissipa- 
tion, and did not lead to much further gayety. 
It had the effect, however, of distracting my 
mind from other things for some time after- 
ward. I found, to my surprise, that my studies 
were flat and savorless ; that I was haunted 
during the writing out of an exercise by the 
echoes of a tuneful waltz ; that my thoughts 
were rather frequently busied with devising im- 
aginary costumes for myself, and fancying how 
I should look in a lemon-colored crape dress, 
such as the eldest Miss Bunny had worn, and 
other similar speculations. In a word, I dis- 
covered in myself a hitherto unsuspected taste 
for excitement, not to mention a considerable 
development of the organ which I believe phre- 
nologists have designated love of approbation. 

Since I had left school, I had, by grandfa- 
ther’s advice, and partly in consequence of a 
suggestion that he had made to my parents, 
continued certain of my studies under the au- 
spices of the Reverend Edwin Arkwright. He 
was an excellent German scholar, and he gave 
me lessons in that language. Also he read 
history with me, and even imparted to me a 
slight smattering of Latin. Father had object- 
ed at first rather strongly to this latter study. 
He did not want his girl to be a blue-stocking. 
He hated learned women; they notoriously 
made bad wives and mothers. Home was a 
woman’s sphere, and domestic duties were her 
proper employment. I remember in my inex- 
perience earnestly endeavoring to discover fa- 
ther’s reasons for thinking that the declension 
of hie, hcec, hoc would undermine my principles, 
and harden my manners, and utterly failing to 
get any enlightenment as to his views on the sub- 
ject. When I had recourse to grandfather, he 
merely said that every one had some prejudices, 
and that it could not be expected that my fa- 
ther should be totally exempt from them ; but 
that he (grandfather) had persuaded father to 
let me learn from Mr. Arkwright, assuring him 
that there was no apparent danger of my be- 
coming a portent of erudition. And indeed 
the discerning reader, who shall peruse these 
pages to the end, will scarcely require me to as- 
sert that whatever evils have happened to me 
in the course of my life have most undoubtedly 
been due in no wise to excess of learning : 
Heaven save the mark ! 


ANNE FURNESS. 


27 


“ But then, grandfather,” said I, earnestly, 
“how is it ? Does father want me not to learn 
well from Mr. Arkwright? Does he think it 
won’t be a bad thing if I only pretend to learn 
German and Latin, but that it will hurt me if 
I really do study industriously ?” 

Whereto grandfather only replied, dryly, that 
I had better not make such speeches as that to 
my father, as he would probably consider them 
unfeminine. And then he added, more seri- 
ously, “Do not question your parent’s conduct 
in a caviling spirit, little Nancy. No Latin in 
the world was ever worth a loving heart and a 
docile temper.” 

I went once a week to Mr. Arkwright’s house 
to take my lesson ; and I usually spent the 
evening of those days at Mortlands, especially 
during the winter and autumn when the day- 
light set early. To me my lesson-days were 
times of almost unmixed enjoyment. At least 
they had been so up to the time of the dance at 
Sir Peter Bunny’s. After that occasion, I 
found that the concentration of my mind upon 
my books was m.uch more difficult than it had 
been : still I continued to go to the curate’s 
house on the appointed days. I knew beyond 
the possibility of doubt that the sum paid for 
my lessons was an important object to the Ark- 
wrights. ' It never occurred to me to question 
my parent’s power of affording it. The exam- 
ple of Mrs. Lane’s over-due school bill might, 
it may be thought, have awakened some mis- 
givings ; but I believed that the causes which 
had led to that circumstance had ceased forev- 
er ; and that the sun was not surer to rise each 
morning than was the price of my lessons to be 
duly and regularly paid to Mr. Arkwright. I 
may here record that it Avas so paid. But not 
until many years later did I learn from mother’s 
confession, that the person Avho paid it Avas my 
grandfather. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The Reverend EdAvin Arkwright lived in a 
small house in the oldest part of Horsing- 
ham. The street he lived in Avas narroAv and 
Avinding : it AA’-as called Wood Street, and was 
perhaps the dullest in the Avhole town — though 
that is a bold Avord. The houses in Wood 
Street varied considerably in size, but they 
Avere all old houses. The Ai’kwrights’ resi- 
dence Avas very old. It had lozenge -shaped 
little panes of glass in the AvindoAvs ; the ceil- 
ings were traversed by massh'e beams. Scarce- 
ly any tAvo of the rooms Avere on the same lev- 
el. You Avent up steps and doAvn steps, appar- 
ently for no reason but that the builder had 
chosen that it should be so. There Avere in- 
scrutable closets hidden aAvay in the thickness 
of the walls ; and the deep seats in the Avin- 
doAvs lifted up by means of a hinge, and re- 
vealed lockers Avhich ahvays made me think of 
a ship. One characteristic of that house Avas 
gloom. Let the sun shine as he Avould out- 


side, Avithin the little loAV-roofed parlor dark- 
ness always fought a good fight for supremacy. 

It lurked in corners, and brooded overhead 
among the oaken rafters. And by three o’clock 
in the afternoon, save perhaps for a feAv days 
in the full midsummer, it had invaded the 
Avhole room. Whoso Avished to use his eyes in 
the parlor at that hour must remain close to 
the beetlc-broAved AvindoAV, or have recourse to 
lamp or candle. There was, indeed, one roomy 
closet near the fire-place Avhich never Avas illu- 
mined by the light of day. Mrs. ArkAvright 
Avould grope in it, and dextrously select Avhat 
she Avanted by means of her sense of touch, 
aided sometimes by that of smell. For this 
was a store closet, and the children were inva- 
riably set sneezing AvheneA'er they approached 
their young noses to its spice-laden atmosphere. 
Once, and once only, I saw that mysterious re- 
ceptacle partially revealed by the feeble flame 
of a rush-light. I could not help thinking of 
the famous dark cavern of Kentucky as I peeped 
into it. White, ghastly looking jars loomed 
on the shelves, and seemed to hlink when the 
rush-light’s ray fell upon them, like creatures 
to Avhom dimness is natural. I could fancy that 
the drab-colored paper, in Avhich various house- 
hold stores were tied, had absolutely become 
paler from long residence in that atmosphere 
of total eclipse. And I certainly saAv some 
agile little insects scudding hurriedly away 
from the unAvelcome illumination. 

The darkness was inherent in the structure 
of the house. But it had another characteris- 
tic, Avhich Avas solely due to the energy of its 
mistress — it Avas inexpressibly (I had almost 
said insupportably) clean. There Avas some- 
thing almost depressing in the specklessness of 
that house ; it suggested such a chilling and ^ 
unsympathizing superiority to human Aveak- 
ness ! Boor Mrs. Arkwright, how she toiled 
and stroA'e ! Five children had to be fed and 
clothed and housed out of her husband’s scan- 
ty pittance, eked out by such chance earnings 
as fell in his way. Five little helpless creat- 
ures Avere living and eating and wearing out 
their garments day by day ; and tAA’O were dead. 
The father spoke of the departed ones some- 
times as if their going had been in truth a 
blessing, though he had doubtless loved them 
Avell. But I am sure that the mother never 
ceased to regret those lost little claimants for 
food and care and tendance. Love that is 
shone on by sunny smiles may be a fair plant ; 
but love that has been Avatered by tears is im- 
perishable. 

Mrs. ArkAvright’s children never squalled, 
her chimneys never smoked, her knives and 
platters Avere ahvays bright and clean ; and yet 
I fear that her husband did not always return 
to his hearth and home Avith the Avillingness 
that might have been expected from so affec- 
tionate and domestic a man as he Avas. In 
truth, there Avas a little familiar fiend Avho made 
a third at his board ; Avho quenched the gloAV 
of the fire, and smirched the snoAvy cloth, and 


28 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


dropped a bitter flavor into the food. And 
the name of the fiend was Jealousy. 

Mrs. Arkwright was not a jealous Avife in 
the ordinary acceptation of the term ; but she 
was jealous of the attachment of every human 
being Avhom she cared for. She was jealous 
of her children, her friends, her servants. I 
believe she was jealous of the purring cat that 
rubbed its head against its master’s legs. She 
must have been good-looking once, I fancied. 
She was not indeed old in years when I first 
knew her, but the proA’iding of that daily bread, 
for Avhich her five little ones were taught to 
pray, had planted many a furroAv in her taAvny 
face. She was very dark ; black-browed, black- 
haired, black-eyed. Hers was an aspect that 
a foreigner Avould be apt to consider peculiarly 
un-English. But she came of a good old yeo- 
man family, that had held the same land in 
our county from generation to generation for 
many centuries. I know not whether the fa- 
miliar fiend I have spoken of had set his mark 
on her complexion, as Avell as her mind, but 
the truth is that she was yelloAv and bitter as a 
Seville orange. 

I Avent to Wood Street one afternoon Avith 
my books, and arrived there too early for my 
lesson. This had happened before. I was 
driA'en into town by my father, and had to ac- 
commodate my hour of setting forth to his con- 
venience ; and on market days he sometimes 
came to Horsingham rather early. Mr. Ark- 
Avright had not yet come home, but I AA^as ush- 
ered by the little maid-of-all-Avork into the par- 
lor, and I sat doAvn to wait. I thought at first 
that there was no one there ; but becoming, 
after a minute or so, accustomed to the dim- 
ness, I perceived little Jane ArkAvright, the 
youngest child, fastened into her wicker chair, 
which had served, I fancy, each of the three 
younger ArkAvrights in succession ; for things 
“wore” wonderfully in that household. Jane 
was a fair, gray-eyed creature, like her father. 
She was fastened, as I have said, into her chair, 
and a kind of ledge, forming a table, Avas placed 
in front of her. On this Avere ranged some 
dozen or so different shaped bits of Avood, cut 
out of the soft sticks used for lighting fires, and 
AA'ith these she was “playing.” Heaven knows 
what fancies her baby brain connected Avith 
those unpromising materials ! But the little 
creature Avas as gravely interested as a chess- 
player over his game. 

“Good-day, Jane,” said L Jane smiled 
faintly, and fixed her eyes upon me Avith an 
' unAvinking gaze. I kissed her, and began to 
talk to her in baby fashion, asking her AA'hat 
“those things” Avere ; meaning thereby the 
bits of Avood. Jane replied, AA'ith much com- 
posure, and a quiet putting aside of my non- 
sensical attempts to be amusing, “Bix.” And 
then resumed her occupation of arranging and 
rearranging the “ bricks” on the ledge of her 
chair. 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Arkwright, coming into the 
room shortly afterward, “ you’re a little early, 


Miss Furness ; Mr. ArkAvright is not come home 
yet.” She glanced sharply at me as I knelt 
near little Jane. She ahvays professed a dis- 
like to her children being made “soft,” as she 
phrased it ; and, consequently, discouarged a 
too caressing manner in those about them. But 
I believe that her besetting failing Avas at the 
bottom of this ; and that she grudged any scin- 
tillation of regard that Avent forth from her 
children’s hearts to a stranger. Fortunately, 
little Jane’s instinet Avas not to be deceived by 
any assumed hardness of manner. She turned 
on her mother a very different look from that 
Avith Avhich she had regarded me, and held 
out her little arms to be taken. It Avas curi- 
ous and pathetic to see Mrs. Arkwright’s face 
change and soften as she lifted Jane and set 
the child on her knee. 

“Hoav good she is!” said I. “She Avas all 
alone here Avhen I came in, and as quiet as a 
wee mouse.” 

“She is mostly alone all the morning.” 

“Poor little thing!” 

“Do you think it such a misfortune to be 
alone? I Avould give any thing for half an 
hour to myself, sometimes. But Jane Avill soon 
have to go to school AA'ith her brother and sis- 
ters.” 

“ To school ! Hoav old is she ?” 

“Turned three. Oh, you needn’t look so 
astonished. Lizzie Avent to school before she 
was so old as this one. But then Lizzie was 
the eldest, and I had to get her out of the Avay 
for a feAv hours every day, because there Avere 
two babies younger than herself to be looked 
after.” 

Presently Mr. Arkwright returned, and Ave 
began our lesson. Mrs. ArkAvright brought 
in her work-basket to the parlor, and sat seAv- 
ing diligently. Hers was no dainty device 
in delicate Avicker-Avork, lined Avith satin, and 
fitted with silver. Mrs. ArkAvright’s Avork- 
basket was strong, ugly, and Avell-Avorn ; and 
her work on the present occasion aaus the dex- 
trous insertion of a patch into a pair of cloth 
troAvsers of small dimensions, the property of 
Edwin Arkwright, Jun., commonly known as 
Teddy. 

“You are absent, I think,” said Mr. Ark- 
Avright, gently, after a patient explanation of 
the meaning of a passage in Schiller which I 
had entirely failed to folloAv. “Whither are 
your thoughts AA’andering ?” he added, Avith a 
smile. 

It Avas a question to which I did not at all 
contemplate giving him a true ansAver. My 
thoughts had been AA'andering Avith a light 
rhythmic motion to the accompaniment of a 
waltz tune ; they had fluttered over garments 
of many colors, and floAvers, odorless, indeed, 
but of cunning Avorkmanship. Lastly, they 
had been contemplating an existence devoted 
to cleaning rooms, nursing babies, and mend- 
ing trowsers, as contrasted Avith such constitu- 
ent elements of happiness as the dancing, 
dresses, and adornments aforesaid, and shud- 


ANNE FURNESS. 


29 


clering in every fibre of their butterfly wings at 
the picture. And yet at the very same mo- 
ment there w'as that within me which sincerely 
disdained the erection of selfish frivolity into 
an ideal of life. I suppose most persons have 
experienced similar contradictions. 

I stammered out, “I — I beg your pardon, 
Mr. Arkwright. I am giving you a great deal 
of trouble.” 

He recommenced his explanation, and this 
time I followed it pretty well ; but only by a 
strong exertion of will. 

“I think,” said Mr. Arkwright, closing the 
book at the end of my lesson, “that I must 
ask you to rewrite that translation. It is 
scarcely so well considered, or so carefully ex- 
pressed, as usual.” 

There was a look of disappointment on his 
face which moved me greatly. I had often 
told myself how' much to be compassionated 
the poor man was, and how glad I was to think 
that my lessons w'ere not irksome to him, but 
that he took some pride and pleasure in my 
progress. And now — ! 

Mrs. Arkwright put in a -word for me. No- 
thing made her more inclined to be merciful to 
any one than the perception that he or she had 
incurred her husband’s displeasure. Not that 
she loved to oppose Mr. Arkwright’s judgments, 
but that it lulled her wakeful jealousy, which 
the least word of praise from him was certain 
to irritate. 

“ Come, Edwin,” said she, with a smile that 
made one wish she would smile oftener. ‘ ‘ Don’t 
be hard on Miss Furness. I think this is the 
first time that she has not done even better than 
you expected.” 

“I hope I was not very hard, Patty,” said 
Mr. Arkwright. He was making my books into 
a packet, and fastening them together with a 
little leather strap, as he spoke. He had long, 
slender white hands, which looked as if they 
were neither strong nor dextrous, and which 
did not belie their appearance ; for the strap 
slipped from his grasp, and down fell the books 
in various directions on to the floor. 

“Oh, pray, let me do it!” I exclaimed, 
kneeling dowui to gather the scattered books. 
But before I could do so Mrs. Arkwright had 
picked them up, and had neatly and rapidly 
put them together in a parcel firmly fastened 
by the strap. “ Oh, I am so much obliged to 
you, Mrs. Arkwright,” I said. “How beauti- 
fully you have made the parcel. But I think 
I never saw such skillful hands as yours ; they 
can do any thing.” 

“Practice makes perfect, ’’replied Mrs. Ark- 
wright, and checked a little sigh, as she resumed 
the patching of Teddy’s trowsers. 

“ Miss Furness is .quite right,” said Mr. Ark- 
wright, looking at his wife with a beaming face. 
“ They are, skillful hands. Dear, busy, helpful 
hands!” He clasped her brown fingers in his 
fair ones as he spoke, and for one instant, at 
all events, Mrs. Arkwright looked happy. 

It was customary for Eliza to call for me at 


Wood Street on my lesson days, and to accom- 
pany me to my grandfather’s. She was wait- 
ing for me now, and we w'ent away together. 
On turning from Wood Street into the main 
street of the town, we met Alice Kitchen com- 
ing from the market with a covered basket on 
her arm. She stopped to speak to us, and to 
exclaim — as she did every time she saw me, 
however short the interval might have been 
since our last meeting — 

“Miss Anne!" Then changing the empha- 
sis — “ Miss Anne ! IIoav you do grow ! ” 

“Do you find me much grown since last 
Monday, Alice ?” 

“ Oh, but to think as I was not so old as you 
are when we first saw you. Miss Anne. And you 
such a little white-faced thing ! Deary me !” 

“ Is your father quite W'ell, Alice ?” 

“Thanks be. Miss Anne, he is nicely. Wo 
be in a bit of a worrit just now, for we’re going 
to take a lodger this races.” 

“ A lodger ! ” exclaimed Eliza. “ Why, Al- 
ice Kitchen, niter !" 

I think that Eliza conceived some peculiar 
solemnity of adjuration to be involved in the 
utterance of both Christian and surname. She 
always used the two when she meant to be im- 
pressive. And she meant to be impressive 
now. For let the reader consider that a xodger 
coming to Horsingham for the race-week must, 
in all probability, come for the purpose of at- 
tending the races. And the races and all con- 
nected with them were held in abhorrence by 
the sect to which Eliza and the Kitchens be- 
longed. Their pastor — the blood-chilling preach- 
er whose eloquence Eliza had once so singular- 
ly commended — was in the habit of planting 
himself under one of the great elms on the way 
to the course, and distributing hand-bills to all 
passers-by, calling upon them in exceedingly 
strong language, enfor-ced by big black letters 
reeking from the press, to turn back while there 
was yet time, and flee from the yawning gulf 
of perdition ; and, moreover, uttering other 
similar warnings in a loud voice. Therefore, 
it will be perceived that the announcement of 
a member of this gentleman’s flock receiving a 
lodger during the race-week was calculated to 
startle and even scandalize his fellow-members. 

But Alice was no whit abashed. Professing 
that she did not want to keep me standing in 
the High Street, “ seeing as it was so thronged, 
being market-day,” she turned and w^alked a 
little way with us through some by-streets, and 
she talked the whole time. I think that Hors- 
ingham folks — and, indeed, the natives of our 
county generally — have a pre-eminent gift of 
speech. They love — men and women, young 
and old — to “hold forth.” The stream of 
words pours forth copiously, and they would 
rather make a long speech than a short one, 
upon any imaginable topic. Alice was certain- 
ly not grudgingly endowed with powers of talk. 
She stated her case and pleaded her cause at 
considerable length. ‘ Her arguments seemed to 
amount to this : that as it was clear people would 


30 


ANNE FURNESS. 


come to the races ; and, as the ungodly made a 
profit of their doing so, she saw no reason why 
she also should not derive some advantage from 
the crowd of visitors. “ ’Tisn’t as though fa- 
ther and me, saying we wouldn’t let, ’ud keep 
folk from coming. Miss Anne!” said she. “And 
there’ll be that throng of strangers as niver was ; 
as butchers’ meat alone ’ll cost a week’s wage 
pretty well. We’ve furnished the little sitting- 
room up stairs quite genteel. And there’s Mat’s 
room empty now, as is the best bedroom i’ the 
house.” (“Trust him for that!” thought I.) 
“And so we’ve made up our minds to set a 
ticket i’ the window. Father he was against 
setting the ticket. He thought it seemed like 
encouraging the races. But I say, ‘No; if you 
want to let, you must make the folk know it.’ 
Setting the ticket won’t make nor mar the 
races as I can see. So father he came round 
at last.” 

“And what does Mr. Matthew say to it?” I 
asked. 

“Oh, Mat, he’s clean against it,” answered 
Alice, coloring a little. “ He holds fast by the 
wages of sin being death. But then, Miss Anne, 
you see he’s well off enough. And I’m sure, 
if father and me got as much out of grandfather 
as Mat and his wife does — Well, that can’t 
be cured, and must be endured.” With that 
she bade us good-day, and turned to go back, 
having first invited Eliza to drink tea with her 
any Sabbath evening after chapel that she could 
get leave from Dr. Hewson to do so. 

When I told grandfather what Alice Kitchen 
had said he looked vexed, and passed his fin- 
gers through his hair until it was more like a 
mane than ever. But he made no comment 
beyond muttering to himself, “ Of course, of 
course. The old story ! The usual thing ! ” 
He liked Alice. She had become quite a fa- 
vorite at Mortlands. Since her brother’s mar- 
riage she had become closer friends with Eliza 
than ever. And even Keturah, whose good 
opinion was not lightly to be had, approved of 
Alice’s industry and good-humor; and espe- 
cially of a certain blunt honesty which charac- 
terized her, and which contrasted oddly with 
the canting form of many of her utterances. 

“And so these — ahem! — blessed races are 
to be more numerously attended than ever this 
year, are they ?” said grandfather, thoughtfully 
nodding his head. 

“So Alice seemed to think, grandfather.” 

“H’m!” (with a peculiar grunt of discon- 
tent). 

‘ ‘ Horsingham people are quite rejoicing at 
the prospect. They say a night’s lodging will 
go up to a fabulous price.” 

“Ay, ay! Spoiling the Egyptians is good 
fun enough.” Then he added, in a lower tone, 
“ But one doesn’t find it so pleasant when one’s 
only daughter happens to have cast in her lot 
for better for worse Avith one of the tribes of 
Pharaoh.” 

“//e will be busy gathering in a plentiful 
harvest,” observed Mrs. Abram, mysteriously. 


“Pharaoh?” 

“ Satan !” 

“Tut, Judith! There, there, I beg your 
pardon for startling you. The harvest men 
will reap on Horsingham race -course; men 
have sown there ; and they plant a fresh crop 
every year. More’s the pity ! ” 

Grandfather withdrew to his study ; and no 
sooner had he turned his back than Mrs. 
Abram bent forward to me with uplifted finger, 
and her eyes so Avide open that the odd yelloAv 
specks in them gleamed very conspicuously, 
and huskily murmured, in her most inarticulate 
tones, “Ah, love, if he AA’ould but understand! 
But your dear grandfather never did think 
enough of the devil ! ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Alice Kitchen’s expectations Avere fulfilled. 
The races of that autumn Avere more numerous- 
ly attended than any meeting that had taken 
place for man}'’ years. I remember that autumn 
Avell. I have reason to remember it. I re- 
member mother’s hesitation as to Avhether she 
should, or should not, be present on the race- 
course on the great “ cup” day. And I remem- 
ber how at last, despite grandfather’s remon- 
strances, she resolved to go. I knew then as 
Avell as I knoAv noAv — albeit, nothing Avas said 
betAveen us to that effect — that mother went to 
the races and took me there, in the hope that 
our presence might keep father from the bet- 
ting-ring, and prevent mischief. 

It Avas a lovely bright day. The sky Avas 
clear, save for a silver gauzy mist on the hori- 
zon, that looked like a breath on a mirror. 
The course, I heard it said, Avould be in first- 
rate order. The person who said so was Dodd’s 
successor, the undersized groom. His name 
AA'as Flower, and I always thought a more in- 
appropriate appellation could scarcely have be- 
longed to him. FloAver was no favorite Avitli 
my mother. She discovered, a very feAv Aveeks 
after his arrival, that he had introduced the 
practice of card -playing into our kitchen, a 
thing unheard of there before. He Avas not al- 
Avays quite sober, although never too drunk to 
do his AA'ork. His manner Avas full of a sup- 
pressed insolence, and his- tongue Avas, the oth- 
er servants said, versed in the Aulest ribaldry, 
to Avhich he Avould give utterance on any occa- 
sion Avhen the presence of his superiors did not 
restrain him. But neither these considerations, 
nor any others Avhich could be presented to him, 
availed AV’ith my father to induce him to dis- 
charge FloAver. 

“ My Lucy, darling,” father AA'ould say, “can 
you tell me that the man has ever dared to be 
insolent or ill -behaved to you in word or 
look?” 

“Tome? No, George; but — ” 

“ Or to Anne?” 

“Why, no dear. Still I — ” 

“Or to me, or to any guest or friend we 


ANNE FURNESS. 


31 


have ? To be sure not ! And he is a first-rate 
groom : quite first-rate. As to the servants’ 
morals, they will take care of themselves. Or, 
if not, I am sure that neither you nor I are able 
to take care of them. And I wonder that you 
should be growing puritanical. You^ of all 
people — brought up as you have been !” 

This was said as we were driving to the 
race-course ; and I pondered on it a good deal. 
Father had given forth many such utterances 
lately, and they never failed to rouse my indig- 
nation. There was an implied assumption in 
them that, because grandfather did not profess 
to be bound within the narrow limits of any of 
the orthodox codes of behavior known to Hors- 
ingham, therefore he and his must necessari- 
ly and consistently grant the widest license, 
and the most placid toleration to all evil doers 
and evil-doings. The High-Church people and 
the Low-Church people, the Methodists and 
tlie Papists, the Zion-chapelites and the Bap- 
tists, publicly condemned each other to perdi- 
tion every seven days or so ; but they were 
quite unanimous in detesting the principles of 
my grandfather, who was charitable to them all, 
and comprehended that there were good men 
to be found in every one of these denomina- 
tions. If he would but have anathematized 
any one set en masse — if he would even have 
declared his conviction that they would all of 
them be lost, instead of humbly hoping they 
might most of them be saved, I really believe 
they would more readily have forgiven him. 
In short, it often occuiTed to me then, and has 
often occurred to me since, that poor Mrs. 
Abram had summed up the public grievance 
against grandfather when she said that he 
“ never did think enough of the devil.” 

“You’ll stay with us, George, won’t you?” 
said my mother, when our carriage was got into 
its place in the line, and the horses had been 
taken out. “I get nervous in this crowd if 
you leave us by ourselves,” she added, with a 
poor pretense of there being no other reason 
why she wished to keep him by her side. 

“Stay with you? Of course!” father an- 
swered, testily. “ You don’t mean, I suppose, 
to pin me to the skirt of your gown ? I shall 
be on the course, and quite within hail all day.” 

To see a bright tear come and tremble in 
mother's eye, and the color flush into her face 
and then fade, leaving her very pale, made a 
feeling of burning indignation rise in my breast 
against father ; and the feeling was not quench- 
ed by my catching sight of Flower, who had 
heard what had passed, and was standing with 
his drab-gaitered legs apart — as bowed and 
fleshless they looked as the “wishing-bone” of a 
chicken that has been picked clean — and an inso- 
lent grin on his smooth, sharp-chinned visage. 

Presently, as the course began to fill, I rec- 
ognized one or two acquaintances. My father’s 
cousins (children of that aunt who lived far 
away from us in the country, and with whom I 
have mentioned my parents staying on a visit), 
the Cudberrys, were there— one son and three 


daughters — occupying a very odd vehicle, which 
I well knew by sight. It was nearly square, 
with four seats inside and a roof supported by 
poles, whence depended leather curtains, which 
were closed when it was cold or rainy, but which 
now were furled back, and fastened by straps 
and buckles. This vehicle (“the sociable,” it 
was called by the Cudberrys) was driven by a 
man in a drab-colored livery coat of enormous 
size. It was long and wide and heavy. The 
collar of it nearly smothered him. The cuffs 
of it were so ample that his hands were entirely 
concealed. The skirt of it hung over his heels. 
It must have been made for a man of exception- 
ally vast proportions. Its present wearer was 
rather short, with a very wide, red face — like a 
face reflected in the bowl of a spoon, I fancied 
— and red hair, surmounted by a stiff, glazed 
hat. Him, also, I knew ; he was Aunt Cud- 
beiTy’s principal servant. His accomplishments 
were exceedingly varied, and ranged from 
“pitching” a load of hay to decanting a bottle 
of port, whenever Uncle Cudberry could make 
up his mind to have one opened, which was not 
very often. The young Cudberrys, as they 
were called, although Sam Cudberry, the eldest, 
was turned forty, and his sisters followed close 
upon him, made a remarkable contrast with the 
rustic and old-world air of their carriage and 
their coachman. They were dressed in extrav- 
agant imitation of those works of art on which 
one may feast one’s eyes in the shop- windows 
of tailors and dress-makers. I never saw any 
thing alive clothed quite in that manner save 
the young Cudberrys, although I have many a 
time, when I was a child, gazed admiringly 
upon certain waxen effigies at the door of a 
clothing warehouse in the High Street, kept by 
a Jewish tradesman, which came near to rival- 
ing Sam Cudberry in general effect. His sis- 
ters, too, were marvels of attire. I counted so 
many shades of color in Matilda Cudberry’s gar- 
ments within a minute or so, that I gave it up 
in despair of enumerating them all. The three 
sisters were very small and very lean, and they 
wore so much clothing, and that of so conspic- 
uous a kind, that they themselves seemed lost 
and extinguished under it. They always gave 
me the idea of inhabiting their clothes, if I may 
use such an expression, rather than wearing 
them. They did not love me, nor my mother, 
nor my father, though for him they felt, I fan- 
cied, a kind of compassion. I don’t know why, 
and I believe they did not know why, either ; 
and my grandfather they actually detested. 
Nevertheless, catching sight of us, they alighted 
from the sociable and came tOAvard us — Sam 
and Matilda and Henrietta and Clementina. 

“ Hoav do, cousin ? How do, Mrs. Furness ? 
How do, Anne ?” said Sam. 

He had a natural, broad, country accent, 
which would not in itself have offended my ears, 
albeit they were used to a nicety of pronuncia- 
tion in my mother and grandfather very rare 
in Horsingham. But to hear Sam Cudberry, 
conscious and ashamed of his tendency to talk 


32 


ANNE FUENESS. 


his native dialect — overlay it, and smother it, 
and change it into a mongrel speech, ugly, like 
every thing forced and strained, and vulgar, like 
every thing atfected — was a trying thing. To 
hear him and his sisters mince and mouth their 
words, and to see the physical contortions of 
lip and jaw which attended their efforts, was a 
really dreadfully trying thing. At least, it was 
so to me. Mother was older and gentler and 
more tolerant than I was, and she bore it sweetly. 
For myself, I sometimes longed to make hide- 
ous grimaces ; to roar out a W’ord at the full 
pitch of my lungs ; to scream with impatience, 
when I heard, Tilly, or Henny, or Clemmy Cud- 
berry converse ; but the worst of it was, that 
the more genteel and fascinating was their mood, 
the more did they think it necessary to twist and 
torture their native language. It sometimes 
positively became a mere mopping and mow- 
ing ; and they had all loud, high-pitched voices. 
They were very genteel on this race-day. Sam, 
in particular, was of superfine gentility; and 
smelled of hair-oil to a degree that w'ould have 
been unbearable any where but in the open air. 

“Holloa!” said my father, good-humoredly 
shaking hands with them all round. “ This is 
something new, is it not? I don’t remember 
ever to have seen you at the races before.” 

“Oh, dear. Cousin George,” replied Tilly, 
“ w'e must make a beginning. I told ma, and 
I told pa, that our nursery days were over, and 
that we must begin to do a little like the rest 
of the w'orld. Society has claims, you know\” 

If a stentorian peacock could be endow'ed 
with speech, I think he w'ould speak like Tilly 
Cudberry. She pronounced “Oh, dear. Cous- 
in George,” “A-o-oo, de-o-ah. Cousin Jaw- 
arge.” But I do not intend attempting to con- 
vey to the reader’s eyes the mode of speaking 
with which father’s cousins regaled our ears. 
He must imagine it for himself — if he can. 

“To be sure: must move with the times, 
you know, as I tell the governor,” observed 
Sam, in corroboration of his sister. 

It occurred to mo that the “times” (in Hors- 
ingham at least) had now been moving in the 
direction of the race-course for a considerable 
period. But I did not say any thing. 

“ I suppose,” said my father, with an almost 
imperceptible embarrassment, “ that you’re not 
going over yonder, Sam, eh ?” 

He pointed to the Grand Stand. The bet- 
ting-ring was there too, as I instantly and pain- 
fully remembered. 

‘ ‘ What ! to the ring ? No, thank ye, George, 
my boy! No, no ; S. C., junior, knows a trick 
w^orth two of that. No, no, no ; not if I am 
aware of it. One of us is enough. The fami- 
ly wall be w'ell represented, eh ? Ha, ha, ha ! ” 

I felt as if I could have struck the booby, as 
he stood beside the carriage with his broad 
brassy countenance expanded into a grin at his 
owm exquisite humor. I do not pretend that 
the feeling was not very wrong and very fool- 
ish on my part, and I knew' it to be so then. 
But although, alas ! my conscience is far from 


clear of wrong and foolish impulses at this pres- 
ent w'riting, I had still less cool wisdom and 
self-command at twenty; which, my observa- 
tion leads me to conclude, is not an altogether 
unparalleled state of things. 

I suppose I looked as angry as I felt, for 
Henrietta observed, spitefully, “ What a color 
you’ve got, Anne ! ” and then the three sisters 
giggled in chorus. 

“ Had you not better get into the carriage ?” 
said my father, speaking to Tilly, Henny, and 
Clemmy, collectively. “It is higher, and you 
will see the course better than from the socia- 
ble. You can mount on the box, Sam ; and, 
as you are not going to the Grand Stand, you 
can remain and look after the ladies. Mrs. 
Furness W'as just saying that she did not like 
to be without a gentleman in this crowd.” 

Shall I ever forget mother’s face when he hur- 
ried away across the course, muttering some- 
thing about “expecting to sec a friend,” and 
“having made an appointment!” The wist- 
ful glance wdth which she follow'ed his retreat- 
ing figure as he made his way through the 
crowd, towering above most of the men there, 
and the piteous efforts she made immediately 
afterw'ard to look smiling and indifferent under 
the sharp unsympathizing eyes of the Cudber- 
rys, are as vivid to me now as they w’ere at that 
moment. 

“I w'onder you let George bet, Mrs. Fur- 
ness,” said Tilly, who generally took the lead 
in right of her seniority. 

Mother put the observation quietly aside, 
and made room on the seat next herself for one 
of the girls. We were five w'omen in the- car- 
riage, and though it w’as a roomy barouche, 
hired for the occasion, we were more crowded 
than was comfortable, owing to our cousins’ 
voluminous skirts. I had vacated my place 
beside mother in favor of Clementina, w'ho was 
the quietest and least fidgety of the three sis- 
ters ; but Tilly turned her out of it immediate- 
ly, and took it herself. 

“Oh, dear, no!” she said, in her most pea- 
cock-like tones, and spreading out her gown, 
so as almost to overwhelm my mother, like a 
flood; “Miss Cudberry, you please.” (She 
frequently spoke of herself as “Miss Cudber- 
ry.”) “No, no, Clemmy; it would look pecul- 
iar to see you in the post of honor and Miss 
Cudberry in the carriage.” 

Clementina submitted very quietly to the 
superior claims of “ Miss Cudberry.” Not that 
she would have allowed her elder sister to 
tyrannize over her ; but they had made a sort 
of code of laws in the family — or rather the 
laws had grown up slowly by prescription and 
precedent — and, among them, the social su- 
premacy of Matilda was a leading article. It 
was odd to me to observe how undoubtingly 
they assumed that these rules and regulations 
were as well known to the outer world as with- 
in, the narrow limits of their family circle, and 
with what surprise and resentment they re- 
garded any breach of them by unconscious 


ANNE FURNESS. 


33 


strangers. They had lived in a very secluded 
house, and in a very secluded manner, until 
quite recently; and being the principal persons 
in their own village, were not prepared to find 
their greatness unrecognized elsewhere. I fear 
that I was partly responsible for the infliction 
on Horsingham society of the three Misses 
Cudberry; for from the date of the dancing- 
party at Sir Peter Bunny’s, of which I have 
slightly made mention, they made high resolve 
to participate in similar gayeties, and pursued 
their object with very frightful energy. “It 
seems so ridiculous, you know,” said Henny, 
who was perhaps the most spiteful, although 
not the most demonstrative of the three sisters, 
“so truly incongruous, that you, little Anne 
Furness, as we were calling you only the other 
day, should visit people we have never been 
introduced to! And go to a ball, too! We 
laughed so at home when we heard it.” 

I had been brought up in great reverence 
for the laws of hospitality ; and I felt that, so 
far as such considerations were concerned, my 
father’s carriage was the same as my father’s 
house, and I therefore refrained from uttering 
a sharp retort that rose to my tongue. But if 
the reader supposes that I felt otherwise than 
indignant and contemptuous toward my cousin, 
he gives me credit for more gentleness and 
amiability than I ever possessed. 

Meanwhile Tilly was talking at the full pitch 
of her voice to Flower, who stood at the car- 
riage-door eying her with a cool insolence, of 
which, I think, she was wholly unconscious. 

“Flowah, Flowah! Do go and see for our 
sociable ! I can’t think where it is ! Our so- 
ciable, you know. Mr. Cudberry’s sociable, of 
Woolling. We came with our man-servant. 
Our man-servant is called Daniel. Tell him to 
draw the sociable up in line with the other car- 
riages directly, because we shall perhaps be 
going back to it, and if he delays we sha’n’t get 
a good position. And, Flowah, tell him to go 
next a gentleman’s carriage. I will not be next 
that donkey-cart. I know it’s a donkey-cart, 
for I saw the donkey as we passed it on the 
road. Daniel his name is. Mr. Cudberry’s 
man-servant, of Woolling.” 

“/ know him, miss,” responded Flower. 
And if he had said in plain words, “ I know 
him ; he is too ridiculous an object in his livery- 
coat to be mistaken for any body else,” he 
could not have conveyed more distinctly (to my 
apprehension, at least) that that was his real 
meaning. 

Tilly, however, continued to utter loud di- 
rections to be given to her “man-servant” in 
a screaming tone, which might have been de- 
signed — as perhaps it was — to attract the atten- 
tion of the whole course to the fact that Mr. 
Cudberiy of Woolling’s sociable, in charge of 
Mr. Cudberry of Woolling’s servant, was on the 
ground, until her attention was seized and her 
speech arrested by seeing me bow to Lady 
Bunny, whose carriage had but newly taken iis 
place in the rank not far from us. 

C 


“The Bunnys?” she demanded, instantly 
fixing her eyes on them, with no more hesita- 
tion than if they had been so many wax-work 
effigies, incapable of embarrassment. 

“Hush !” I exclaimed, almost involuntarily. 
“Yes ; that is Lady Bunny.” 

Almost as I spoke Sir Peter Bunny alighted 
from his carriage, and came toward us, accom- 
panied by a gentleman. I knew the gentle- 
man by sight. I knew his name, too. I had 
danced with him at the ball. He was an offi- 
cer, whose regiment was quartered in a small 
town not far from Horsingham. 

“Mrs. Furness,” said Sir Peter, raising his 
hat, “may I have the honor of presenting to 
you my friend, Mr. Lacer? Ensign Gervase 
Lacer, of her Majesty’s — th regiment of foot,” 
added Sir Peter ; and I felt unreasonably 
ashamed of his doing so, and wished he hadn’t, 
and wondered if Mr. Lacer guessed why I col- 
ored — as I felt that I did. 

My mother saluted the new-comers with her 
own sweet and unaffected grace. She remem- 
bered having had the pleasure of seeing Mr. 
Lacer at Sir Peter’s house, she said, although he 
had not then been introduced to her. I could 
see what a favorable impression her manner 
and her beauty — for though paler and more anx- 
ious-looking than she used to be, she was still 
very beautiful — ^made on Mr. Lacer. And I 
perceived, or thought I perceived, that he was 
surprised as well as pleased to find me so su- 
perior in refinement to the bulk of Horsingham 
people. And I felt — again quite unreasonably 
— half vexed, half triumphant at so perceiving. 

“Introduce me !” said Tilly, in a loud whis- 
per, and nudging my mother with her elbow. 

There was np help for it. “ Sir Peter Bun- 
ny, I think you have met my husband’s cous- 
ins?” said mother, gently. “Miss Cudberry” 
— “ Of Woolling,” prompted Tilly, parenthet- 
ically — “ Miss Henrietta, and Miss Clementina 
Cudberry.” 

“ Don’t leave me out, Mrs. George ! ” called 
Sam, from his elevation on the box. Sir Peter 
and Mr. Lacer looked up, and Sam took his 
hat off with a flourish. Mr. Lacer’s stare at 
him was, I felt, neither polite nor flattering ; 
but Sam evidently conceived himself to have 
made a very favorable impression. The course 
was now becoming very crowded, and the hour 
fixed for the first race of the day was rapidly 
approaching. Sir Peter proposed to take me 
back with him to his wife’s carriage. Barba- 
ra was there, he said, and Lady Bunny had 
charged him to get Mrs. Furness’s peimission 
for me to join their party. I hesitated, and 
looked at mother. “Go, my love,” she said, 
“ since Lady Bunny is kind enough to wish it.” 
I took Sir Peter’s arm, and went with him. 
Even now, when I think of it, I feel a stab of 
self-reproach. It was selfish, it was almost 
cruely to^Ieave mother alone with those hard, 
uncongenial women, to bear and conceal a thou- 
sand anxmus thoughts about my father as best 
she could. Mother— -God bless her !— forgave 


34 


ANNE FURNESS. 


me then and there. Nay, I believe she would not 
have admitted there was any thing to forgive. 
Her maternal love demanded the sacrifice of no 
wish, or caprice, or self-indulgence from me. 
But my conscience was not to be hoodwinked, 
and it made me uneasy at intervals all the day. 

Mr. Lacer remained for a few minutes at 
the carriage - door speaking to my mother. 
And Sir Peter and I must have been quite a 
long way off when we heard Tilly Cudberry’s 
voice screeching to Mr. Lacer, with great vi- 
vacity, “Do just be kind enough to try if you 
can find it. Flowah has disappeared ! Mrs. 
George, where can Flowah be? Inquire for 
Mr. Cudberry of Woolling’s sociable, Mr. 
Lace-ah! And for our man-servant, Daniel. 
Mr. Cudberry’s man-servant, Daniel — of Wool- 
ling!” 


CHAPTER X. 

Lady Bunny and Barbara received me very 
kindly. They had a handsome roving carriage, 
and a great hamper full of good things to eat 
and drink, and it was decidedly more comfort- 
able to be with them than squeezed up as the 
fifth in a barouche, of which three other occu- 
pants were the Misses Cudberry. 

Lady Bunny was a handsome, portly woman, 
with a slow, placid manner. She wore her hair 
— still of a clear brown color, untouched with 
gray — in a row of short, loose curls all round 
her head. This I remember thinking very odd 
and incongruous when I first saw her, I being 
then a little girl at school. But the impression 
soon wore off. And in no other particular, 
either of manner or dress, did Lady Bunny 
affect juvenility. Barbara was very like her 
mother. She had the same large light blue 
eyes, the same fair complexion and dimpled 
chin. She, too, wore her hair in a single row 
of short curls, and looked altogether like a 
small copy of Lady Bunny; for Barbara, 
though plump, was short, and built on a much 
less massive scale than her mother. 

“I would have got Sir Peter to ask Mrs. 
Furness to favor us, my dear, but I see she has 
company,” said Lady Bunny. She raised a 
large double eye-glass to her eyes as she spoke, 
and contemplated my cousins with her usual 
deliberate quietude. 

“Those are my father’s cousins. Lady Bun- 
ny, the Misses Cudberry.” 

“Of Woolling,” added Mr. Lacer, who had 
by this time come up to the carriage. He gave 
me so comical a glance as he said the words 
that I could not refrain from smiling. 

“ Ah, sure I” said Lady Bunny. “And Mr. 
Furness, where is he, my dear?” 

“I don’t know — I — I — mean, I think he is 
over there.” 

“On the Grand Stand, my dear?” 

“ Perhaps. I am not sure. No, Lady Bun- 
ny, he is in the betting-ring, I think.” 

Lady Bunny said no more. But she raised 
her double eye-glass again, and looked this 


time at my mother. And placid as Lady Bun- 
ny’s face was, I could discern some traces of 
trouble and compassion on it as she did so. 

“I think,” said Mr. Lacer, “that I have 
had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Furness sev- 
eral times.” He was leaning with folded arms 
on the carriage-door. He was on the side next 
me. The others were watching the clerk of 
the course, as he cantered up and down, scat- 
tering the crowd, and the general confusion of 
“clearing the course.” And I think they did 
not hear what Mr. Lacer was saying. Indeed, 

I am almost certain that they did not, for he 
spoke in quite a low voice. 

‘ ‘ Where have you met father ?” I asked. I, 
too, spoke in a low voice, I am quite unable 
to say why. I am very sure that it was not 
because I feared being overheard. 

“Oh, at — several places. Does he not go 

to the races at W sometimes?” naming 

our county town. 

“He has been once or twice, I believe.” 

“I have never seen Mrs. Furness with him 
there.” 

“Mother never goes to the races at W .” 

“Nor you?” 

“No.” 

“ You look. Miss Furness, almost as if you — ” 

“As if I what?” 

“As if you disapproved of races. There 
was quite a severe expression on your face.” 
Mr. Lacer laughed as he said it, but not rudely 
— only merrily, I thought ; but the subject was 
one on which it was impossible for me to feel 
merry — mother’s wistful face came too vividly 
into my mind. Mr. Lacer watched me attent- 
ively. I did not see that he did so, for I did 
not look at his face, but I felt it. 

“They are going up to the starting-post,” 
said he^ looking at two or three bright-colored 
specks that were moving gently over the course 
at some distance. “Will you risk a pair of 
gloves on the event. Miss Furness? I will 
give you the field against Butterfly.” 

“ Oh no, thank you ! I never bet,” said I, 
with what seemed, I dare say, ludicrous earn- 
estness. He must have thought me the most 
unsophisticated of provincial school-girls, or the 
most affected. Mr. Lacer bowed and smiled, 
and then, as the race was just about to begin, 
he mounted on to the box, where Sir Peter 
was already seated. ^ ^ - 

This first race was by no means one of the 
important events of the day. When it was 
over the crowd poured over the course again, 
and the itinerant jugglers, mountebanks, musi- 
cians, and fortune-tellers began to ply their re- 
spective trades. I looked out anxiously over 
the moving mass of heads to try whether I 
could descry my father. I hoped that, now 
the race was over, he would rejoin mother. I 
knew how she would be longing to have him by 
her side again, away from that surging, roaring, 
horrible mass of men in the betting-ring. To 
me there seemed something infernal in their 
vehemence and excitement. Pleasure or amuse- 


ANNE FUllNESS. 


ment there was none within that inclosure : 
merely a hideous, reckless lust of money, that 
sparkled in their eyes, and flushed their eager 
faces, and gave a loud, brassy tone to their 
shouting voices. It was a pitiable and degrad- 
ing spectacle, I thought, to see these human 
creatures selling their very souls on the hazard 
of Blue Jacket or Red Jacket, following every 
bound of the panting, straining horses with 
wolfish eyes, and saluting the victor with almost 
wolfish hoAvls. It shocked and revolted me to 
know that ray father was among this crew. 
And the bitter knowledge I had of mother’s 
pain of mind did not dispose me to look leni- 
ently upon the sceile. True, father had prom- 
ised not to bet ; but, alas ! it was some time 
since I had felt that no reliance w’as to be placed 
on his word in that respect. Mother felt it, 
too : she had ceased to boast of her implicit 
trust in her husband’s promise. In her love 
and fidelity to him — poor mother! how loving 
and how faithful a heart hers was — she for- 
bore to utter a syllable of complaint even to 
me ; but the subject of father’s promise, and 
father’s stanch adherence to his plighted word, 
was, by a tacit and instinctive understanding, 
entirely avoided between us. 

Lady Bunny observed my W'andering gaze. 
“Are you looking for any one, my dear?” she 
asked. 

“ I thought that perhaps father might be go- 
ing back to our carriage now.” 

“Do you want Mr. Furness?” said Mr. La- 
cer, jumping down from the box. “Let me 
go and look for him : may I ? I know him very 
well by sight.” 

“ Oh, it isn’t for myself, but I know mother 
will be — ” I began, and then I stopped short, 
confusedly. He did not seem to notice my 
confusion ; but I knew beyond doubt that he 
had noticed it, and that he instantly began 
laughing and talking with the others, in order 
that they might not observe my flushed face, 
and eyes in which tears were painfully brim- 
ming up, and only kept from falling by a strong 
effort, and I felt very grateful to him. Lady 
Bunny and Sir Peter were busily superintend- 
ing the unpacking of a huge hamper. Barbara 
was exchanging nods and smiles with some 
friends on the opposite side of the course ; but 
even if their attention had not been thus occu- 
pied, it would speedily have been distracted 
from me, even supposing they had been inter- 
ested in observing my tell-tale face before, 
which was not likely, by the arrival of Tilly 
Cudberry, who advanced to the carriage-door 
with her peculiar, jerky little walk, leaning on 
her brother’s arm. It w'as impossible for any 
being, unless it were a person afflicted (or bless- 
ed !) with total deafness, to ignore Tilly Cud- 
berry’s presence for many seconds. 

“ You abominable creature !” she exclaimed, 
shaking her finger at Mr. Lacer. The words 
w'ere intended to be playful, but the voice in 
W'hich they were uttered was so alarmingly sug- 
gestive of the peculiar tone of badinage known 


generically as “Billingsgate,” that Sir Peter 
Bunny and his wife looked up from the hamper 
quite scared, and their servant very nearly let 
fall a bottle of Champagne which he was in the 
act of unwdring. 

“Meaning me. Miss Cudberry?” said Lacer, 
with a comical face of dismay. 

“Oh, I dare say, you faithless wretch, you! 
It’s no use putting on that innocent look — not 
one bit of use ! Didn’t you say you were going 
to find the sociable, and Daniel, our man-serv- 
ant? And then you disappear like I don’t 
know what, and leave us in despair ! Perfect 
despair!” 

I shall never forget the screech with which 
she uttered the last word. It rings in my ears, 
w’hen I think of it, to this day. 

Lady Bunny appeared quite bewildered. As 
to Barbara, she was choking herself with her 
pocket-handkerehief in order to prevent an ex- 
plosion of laughter. 

“Dear, dear, what is the matter ?” said Lady 
Bunny, in a mildly reproving tone. Mr. Lacer 
explained that he had endeavored to find the 
“sociable” and the “man-servant,” but had 
failed. He added that he w'ould take the pres- 
ent opportunity of the interval between tw'o 
races to make further search for them. Just 
as he was moving away he said to me, very 
quietly, “I shall tell Mr. Furness that your 
mother is without a cavalier, and get him to 
come back to the carriage. He evidently did 
not suppose that Mr. CudbeiTy w'ould desert her 
as he has done.” I thanked him by a silent 
gesture of the head. I admired his quickness, 
his self-possession, his good-natured considera- 
tion for mother. I had seen so little of the 
world that Mr. Lacer, with his easy, self-assured 
manner, which was not to be ruffled even by 
Tilly Cudberry, seemed to me a very superior 
being — one to be relied on, and believed in im- 
plicitly. Had he been loud, or coarse, or ob- 
trusively complimentary, I should have shrunk 
from him with my old dainty shyness. But he 
was really kind, and full of tact, and he had al- 
ready established, I scarcely knew how, a sort 
of eonfidential understanding with me on the 
subject of my father’s besetting sin; and yet 
we had said no word to each other save such 
as I have laid before the reader. Still, my 
faith in Mr. Lacer’s savoir-faire^ great as it 
was, searcely led me to hope that he would 
succeed in bringing father away from the neigh- 
borhood of the Grand Stand. I was, therefore, 
agreeably surprised to see him presently emerge 
from a knot of people gathered round a conju- 
ror, and walk toward our carriage arm in arm 
with my father. I kept my eyes fixed on 
mother’s figure, and although I could not, at 
that distance, discern her face distinctly, I saw 
the little joyful start of surprise she gave when 
father, whom she, sitting with her head turned 
toward the opposite direction, had not perceived 
approaching, touched her hand to attract her 
attention. And my heart was filled with ten- 
derness and compassion for her as I saw it. 


3G 


ANNE FURNESS. 


Meanwhile Miss Cudberry and Mr. Sam Cud- 
berry had made acquaintance with Lady Bunny 
and Barbara, and were conversing with them 
after their own engaging fashion. Lady Bunny 
was the most hospitable creature in the world ; 
and, although I could plainly see that these 
cousins of ours excited wonder and alarm in 
her breast, she could not allow them to stand 
by while the contents of the hamper were being 
consumed without inviting them to take a seat 
in her carriage and a share of the good things. 
The place in the carriage Tilly accepted with 
alacrity, and she did justice to the solid viands. 
But on being offered a glass of Champagne she 
protested, with a cry like that of a huntsman 
giving the view-hallo, that she never touched 
wine — nevah ! and, not content with simply de- 
clining, she made a face expressive of the ut- 
most disgust, as though these troublesome 
people were endeavoring to thrust upon her 
something unspeakably nauseous. Whereat 
Lady Bunny’s large blue eyes grew larger than 
ever. 

Sam, however, was not under any such re- 
straint as his sister, and he drank so much 
wine, and became so convivial, that I was quite 
miserable, dreading lest he should disgrace 
himself beyond forgiveness. 

“Well, little missy!” said my cousin Tilly, 
playfully waving the leg-bone of a chicken at 
me previous to depositing it, cleanly picked, 
on her plate, “and how do you get on? We 
were so amused. Lady Bunny, to hear of Anne’s 
being at a ball at your house !” 

“Were you?” said Lady Bunny, simply. 
“Dear! Why?” 

“Oh, my goodness, I don’t know! But 
there is an absurdity in the idea to «s, which I 
dare say you can hardly understand. Gracious!” 
Here followed a wild peal of laughter, in which 
nobody joined, for the excellent reason that 
none of us had a conception what had excited 
it. Presently she proceeded: “But Anne al- 
ways was the funniest little frump of a thing. 
Little Frumpy we used to call her at home. 
We are dreadful quizes, you must know. Lady 
Bunny. It’s quite a family trait.” No one 
responding to this sally either, Tilly looked 
once more at me, and exclaiming, “Oh, you 
queer little creature!” went off into a fit of 
laughter behind her pocket-handkerchief. 

Barbara Bunny here lost patience and blurt- 
ed out, with school-girl abruptness, “Little! 
Why, i^nne’s quite tall: she’s a head and 
shoulders taller than you, at any rate ! ” 

Tilly changed the subject. “ What a nice 
creature that Mr. Lacer is !” she said. “ Such 
a military figure ! He was quite delighted to 
make our acquaintance.” 

“ Was he?” began Sir Peter, and then stopped 
and altered his phrase into “No doubt he was !” 

“ Oh, delighted ! Woolling — our place is at 
Woolling — in fact, we are of Woolling : Cud- 
berrys, of Woolling — is only five miles from 
where his regiment is stationed. You may 
fancy how he jumped at it when I said I was 


sure Pa and Ma would be glad to see him, and 
that there would a knife and fork for him any 
time he liked to call. Because, as to society, 
gracious. Lady Bunny, I suppose there’s nothing 
but tradesmen’s families where he is quartered ?” 

Poor Lady Bunny colored a little, but quite 
coincided in Miss Cudberry’s opinion, that as- 
sociation with “tradesmen’s families” was not 
to be thought of. She was a good woman, and 
in most things a perfectly sincere one ; but on 
the point of gentility she was weak. Sir Peter 
professed himself even more shocked and sym- 
pathetic for Mr. Lacer’s forlorn position in be- 
ing quartered amidst such abomination of deso- 
lation as was involved in having tradesmen’s 
families for his sole society. And yet Sir 
Peter, who was an honest, well-principled man 
in the main, had stood behind a grocer’s count- 
er with linen sleeves on, in his father’s shop, 
before he took to selling malt instead of sugar, 
and so made his fortune. These anomalies 
perplexed and vexed me greatly in those days. 

Sam broke in with enthusiastic praises of 
“Lacer.” Lacer w'as a top-sawyer; Lacer 
knew a thing or two ; Lacer and he, he fore- 
saw, would become great chums. He was 
more than half tipsy by this time, and was be- 
coming so thoroughly odious, with his natural 
stupid coarseness peeping through the thin 
varnish of vulgar finery with which he had 
overlaid it, that even his sister began to think 
it possible that the Bunnys might have too 
much of him if he remained longer. Of her- 
self she never conceived that any society could 
have too much. She therefore declared that 
she must return to her cousin George, and 
send Sam to find the sociable and Daniel ; for 
it was getting late, and they should only re- 
main for one more race, the great race. And 
with many voluble and vociferous adieus to the 
Bunnys, and holding out the encouraging hope 
that it would not be long before she paid them 
a visit, she seized her brother’s arm and dragged 
him ofi*. 

“ Your cousin’s very — ^lively,” observed Lady 
Bunny to me; “but a little — ahem! — a little 
sharp in her manners, isn’t she ?” 

“I think she is very rude. Lady Bunny,” 
said I, bluntly. 

“Oh, come, come, come!” said Sir Peter, 
smiling, “don’t be severe. Miss Anne; don’t 
be severe.” Then turning to his wife, he add- 
ed, “ A good old family, my lady. A well- 
known name. Cudberrys, of Woolling, have 
been on their own land from father to son for 
two centuries and a half.” 

I saw no more of Mr. Lacer that day until 
just as we were about to leave the course. I 
had observed, with almost as much surprise as 
thankfulness, that father remained in the car- 
riage with mother during the rest of the day ; 
and I therefore was prepared for the beaming 
face with which my darling mother greeted me 
when Sir Peter escorted me back to her. Mr. 
Lacer came up to say “good-by” as we were 
driving off. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


37 


“ See you to-morrow, Lacer,” said my fa- 
ther, so familiarly that I stared at him. But 
the other took it quite as a matter of course, 
and merely nodded. 

“I didn’t know, George dear,” said mother, 
“that you had invited Mr. Lacer to Water- 
Eardley for to-morrow.” 

“ No, I have not done so. I shall see him in 
— in Horsingham. All right. Flower, go on.” 

I noticed with much indignation that Flower, 
in touching his hat to Mr. Lacer as we drove 
away, bestowed on him a broad grin and a 
grimace that was almost like a wink. But I 
concluded that he had been drinking. The 
last sound which saluted our ears as our wheels 
left the turf of the race-course for the road, 
and which rose above all the mingled din of 
the crowd, was Tilly Cudberry’s voice, scream- 
ing, “Do be so good as look for a sociable! 
Mr. Cudberry’s sociable, of Woolling! And 
for a man-servant, answering to the name of 
Daniel” (as if he had been a dog), “ Mr. Cud- 
berry’s man-servant, of Woolling!” 


^ CHAPTER XI. 

A WEEK or so after that race-day I was sit- 
ting engaged with some studies for Mr. Ark- 
wright in mother’s little morning-room, when 
the door was opened, after a preliminary tap — a 
loud and aggressive kind of tap, which seemed 
not so much to ask admission as to demand it 
peremptorily — and Mrs. Matthew Kitchen walk- 
ed into my presence. I do not think she had 
been to Water-Eardley more than twice since 
her marriage; and on each occasion she had 
come with a broad hint that she expected a 
present. The first time was when she an- 
nounced to my mother that she was getting her 
baby-clothes ready, as she expected to be con- 
fined within a short time. That announce- 
ment induced mother to give her a handsome 
hood and a piece of fine linen. On the occa- 
sion of her second visit, Mrs. Kitchen brought 
her baby, and informed us that it was just going 
to be baptized in Zion Chapel, and that old Mr. 
Green, the child’s great-grandfather, had be- 
haved “ very handsome” in the way of gifts to 
the infant. Father was present when this was 
said, and I saw him wrap a sovereign in a piece 
of paper and slip it into Mrs. Kitchen’s hand, 
begging her to buy the little one some trifie 
with it. I had nothing to give ; but if I had 
been mistress of a whole silversmith’s shop full 
of christening gifts, I would not have bestowed 
one of them on Selina. I felt as if it would be 
a piece of hypocrisy on my part to do so, there 
being no emotion of kindness toward her in my 
heart. 

“ How do you do, Selina ?” I said, looking 
up from my books in some surprise as she en- 
tered. 

“I am very well and hearty — I’m thankful 
to the Lord,” she answered. 


And indeed she looked strong and thriving. 
She was buxom and bright-eyed as ever, but 
her countenance seemed to me to have grown 
harder without looking older. She had very 
handsome clothes on, and wore a gold watch 
fastened outside her waist-belt. 

“It is a long time since we have seen any 
thing of you,” said I, rather at a loss for con- 
versation. 

Selina seated herself in an arm-chair unin- 
vited, and folded her hands on her lap before 
making answer. “Ah, so it is. /’m a busy 
woman. J have duties. My husband he is a 
busy man, and he expects me to do likeways.” 

“I suppose so. Every body has duties.” 

“Now, Miss Anne, don’t you go to take 
offense because I spoke of my duties. You 
always was apt to take offense from a little 
thing. How’s your mother ?” 

I explained to her that mother was not very 
well — was suffering from a nervous headache, 
and could not be disturbed. She received this 
news very coolly, having lost none of her old 
insensibility to other people’s troubles, and then 
began to inquire for father, and grandfather, 
and Eliza, and Keturah, and, lastly, for Mrs. 
Abram. They were all well, I said shortly. 
Upon this she commenced favoring me with a 
kind of homily upon the “lukewarmness” of 
my family in general, and my grandfather in 
particular. She herself, she averred, had been 
“lukewarm” in former days — when she lived 
in a “lukewarm” family, in fact. And she 
delicately implied that, had she been prema- 
turely cut off in that tepid condition, she con- 
sidered that the guilt of it should in justice 
have been laid at our door. But now. Provi- 
dence having specially interfered to “snatch 
her” — these were her words — she was happy to 
state that she was quite comfortable as to the 
future prospects of herself, her husband, and 
her little boy. Respecting the insignificant re- 
mainder of the human race, she confessed that 
she was not quite comfortable. Long before 
she was half-way through this discourse, I had 
signified to her that I was occupied, that I had 
some studies to prepare for the next day, and 
that if she had nothing to say but in that of- 
fensive strain, I should take leave to busy my- 
self with my own concerns, and withdraw my 
attention from her altogether. But this made 
no difference to Selina. She talked on, and I 
sat with my eyes fixed on my book, but totally 
unable to fix my mind there too. I was burn-, 
ing with indignation, and I could not choose 
but hear the woman’s ignorant folly, strongly 
spiced with malice. Why should she feel ma- 
liciously toward me and mine ? I asked myself. 
She owed us nothing but gratitude. As the 
word shaped itself in my thoughts, it recalled 
to me Keturah’s stern saying, that Mat Kitchen’s 
“natural man” was a man that hated to be 
grateful. To any cool auditor — which I was 
far from being — I doubt not that Selina’s tirade 
would have appeared exquisitely ludicrous. 
She had caught up certain phrases from the 


38 


ANNE FURNESS. 


Zion Chapel preaclier, and certain phrases from 
her husband, and jumbled them all together 
with her own peculiar modes of speech. The 
incongruity between the fire and fury of some 
of these sayings, and the stolid calm with which 
Selina brought them out, was extraordinary. 

When she had tired herself with talking, or 
when, more probably, she thought that for oth- 
er reasons of her own it was time to bring her 
visit to an end, she ostentatiously turned her 
gold watch-face outward, and declared that she 
must be thinking of going. The etforts she 
made to see the face of the watch, and the dif- 
ficulty she had in doing so, in consequence of 
the watch being securely fastened to her belt 
by means of a great gold hook, reminded me 
of my own old struggles with my pocket-hand- 
kerchief. 

“Will you not have something to eat, Selina, 
before going back?” said I. 

“Yes, I will,” she answered, promptly. “I’ll 
take a glass of beer and a bit of cold meat, or 
whatever they’ve got in the kitchen. ” 

I rang the bell and gave the necessary orders. 
Before Selina left the room she held out her 
hand to me. 

“No, thank you, Selina,” said I, “I don’t 
feel inclined to shake hands with you.” 

“Now that’s your pride, you see,” she re- 
torted, shaking her head. She did not frown, 
or flush, or show the least discomposure. “You 
always was proud, from quite a little thing.” 

“It is not pride that makes me refuse to 
shake hands with you, Selina ; or, at all events, 
it is no greater and no diiferent kind of pride 
than I shall show to any of my acquaintance 
under similar circumstances. I think that you 
had no right to come here and speak to me as 
you have done. I think you did not mean 
what you said kindly, and I resent that.” 

“Ah!” said she, still perfectly unruffled, 
“that’s the carnal nature, that is. You can’t 
bear to hear the truth, you know. I ain’t of- 
fended with you. Miss Anne ; nor my hus- 
band won’t be offended when I tell him. I 
might ha’ been the same if Providence hadn’t 
snatched me, only as I never had your tem- 
4)er, nor your pride, nor your height. You al- 
ways was short-tempered, and proud, and high 
from a child. Remember me to your mother, 
will you ?” 

And with that Mrs. Matthew Kitchen rustled 
out of the room. I sat gazing at my book for 
some time after she had made her exit; I do 
not know for how long, but it seemed a long 
time ; and I woke up suddenly to the conscious- 
ness that I had not understood one syllable of 
what my eyes had been resting on. I rose and 
put away my books and papers, intending to 
return to them later in the day, and w'ent out 
into the garden. From the garden I wandered 
on into the river-side meadows, and walked as 
far as the present confines of our land. Then 
I turned, and was strolling slowly back toward 
the house, when I saw two figures emerging 
from the stable-yard. The stable-yard was a 


part of our premises that I never visited now. 
I had sometimes done so in the days when 
Dodd reigned there. But since Flow’er’s ar- 
rival I had never set foot within those precincts. 
Neither was father apt to visit his stables since 
the sale of his hunters. There was nothing 
there for him to take pride in. Nevertheless, 
one of the two figures emerging from the sta- 
ble-yard was my father’s. The other person I 
discerned, to my great surprise, to be that of 
Kitchen. Mat Kitchen, like his wife, was well 
clad. He wore shining ncAV black broadcloth, 
and a shining new black hat. And his hair, 
and his whiskers, and his eyes were black and 
shining, to match his attire. But his pouting 
mouth and his short snub nose were as express- 
ive as ever of sullen obstinacy, and contradict- 
ed the general sleekness of his aspect in a for- 
bidding manner. 

The two men did not see me at first. They 
were talking earnestly; or rather, my father 
was talking, and Matthew was listening. I 
heard the former say : 

“ I’m sure you could manage it for me ; and as 
to risk — where’s the risk ? What risk can there 
possibly be ? I have shown you enough to — ” 

Here Matthew interrupted him, saying, in his 
deep, growling voice, “It don’t depend on me, 
Mr. Furness. ShoAAung me and convincing me 
ain’t the question. Grandfather Green is a 
close man. A religious man and a godly man 
he is, but close, Mr. Furness. Nor he ain’t 
soft, ain’t ray grandfather. He looks after his 
percentage, Mr. Furness, in a way that at his 
years is surprising. And as to security — I 
never knew Grandfather Green Avrong with his 
security. Sometimes it comes over me like as 
though it might be a special providence in his 
favor. For you do see the unescutest done in 
spite of all their AA’orldly cunning, Mr. Furness. 
But Grandfather Green he has the wisdom of 
the serpent along Avith the guilelessness of the 
dove — in a script’ral sense — and I neA^er kneAV 
him done yet, Mr. Furness.” 

At this point Mat Kitchen became aAvare of 
me, and, breaking off his speech to my father, 
said, “Good-day to you, miss,” in the same 
sullen, groAAding way that he had been talking 
in all along. 

“Where is Mrs. Kitchen, Anne?” asked fa- 
ther, in an odd, flustered manner. “I thought 
she Avent in to have a chat Avith you Avhile her 
husband and I looked at the pony-chaise. Do 
you think that little matter can be managed, 
Matthew ?” 

“ It may be patched up for a bit,” returned 
Matthew. But I did not believe him to be 
speaking of the pony-chaise. 

It Avas all so odd and disagreeable that I 
dreAv a long breath of relief Avhen these people 
took their departure. They drove aAvay in a 
high old-fashioned gig, draAvn by a tall, bony, 
ancient horse. I recognized both gig and horse 
as belonging to Mr. Green, the coach-maker. 

I had often seen the old man driving about 
Horsingham in it. 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


39 


“ How smart Selina is,” said I to my father, 
as we stood side by side at the gate, watching 
the retreating vehicle jolting along the road. 
“I suppose her husband is prospering very 
much.” 

“ Hah ! yes,” murmured my father, absently. 

“ I never was fond of Selina, father, as you 
know. And I think her rise in the world has 
made her quite unbearable.” 

“Eh?” said father, sharply, turning full on 
me. 

I told him of Selina’s homily, and my refusal 
to shake hands with her. He flushed a dark 
red, as he did when he was very angry. For a 
minute or so he did not trust himself to speak. 
Then he began to scold me furiously. Why 
had I been such a fool as to care what the wo- 
man said ? W'hy could I not have been civil, 
and held my tongue ? Did I know what mis- 
chief I might have done by my cursed missish 
airs and pride ? — had done, perhaps ! For who 
could tell how Matthew would take it? This 
was what I learned at Mortlands ! This was 
my grandfather’s doing ! Dr. Hewson was not 
content with flying in the face of all — father 
hesitated for a word here — of all established 
ordinances himself, but he must get me talked 
to, and lectured, and hectored by an ignorant, 
brazen hussy, who was my servant the other 
day. 

I was greatly astonished to discover that, 
while my father so hotly upbraided me for not 
having been civil and friendly to Selina, he was 
at the same time violently angry Avith her for 
her impudence and presumption. I bore my 
scolding in silence, however, and after a while 
father cooled down. He walked away, stopped, 
hesitated, and came back to me as I still stood 
leaning on the gate. “Look here, Anne,” he 
said, “ the best thing for you to do will be to 
keep out of Selina’s way whenever — if ever — 
she comes here again. You can do it quietly, 
without being markedly rude to her. I have 
a reason for not wishing to oifend that sulky 
beast. Mat Kitchen, just now. I tell you that 
in confidence, Anne. Do you understand ?” 

“ Yes, father.” 

“Give me a kiss, and let us say no more 
about it.” He stooped his tall form to kiss my 
forehead. It seemed to me then a long, long 
time ago since I had been so small that father’s 
stooping had to be supplemented by my stand- 
ing on tip-toe in order to reach his lips. Now 
he had to bend but a little way, for I inherited 
his straight, upright figure, and Avas rather aboA’-e 
the middle height of Avomen. 

I returned to the morning-room, but not to 
my interrupted studies. I could not fix my 
mind on them. Mother was still lying in her 
darkened chamber, a prey to a violent nervous 
headache, and the only tiling that care and af- 
fection could do for her in these crises was to 
Avatch that she was undisturbed, and to leave 
her quite alone. So there I sat by myself, 
looking out on the gray autumn sky and the 
rotting leav^es, and thinking — or rather dream- 


ing — sadly enough, when there arrived by the 
Horsingham carrier a letter for me from my 
grandfather. The sight of his handwriting re- 
vived my spirits like a cordial. He had been 
wishing to come to Water-Eardley, he said, 
but had been, and still Avas, busy with a great 
many fever cases among poor families in a low 
part of the town. However, he hoped to see 
me at Mortlands soon. He had had pleasant 
news. Donald — I remembered Donald, of 
course — Donald Ayrlie Avas coming to stay with 
him. It was to have been a mystery and a 
surprise ; but he, grandfather, hated mysteries 
and surprises. He Avould tell me particulars 
when Ave met. 

I have mentioned that my recollection of my 
old play-fellow, Donald, had been fading rapid- 
ly during the latter years of my school life. It 
had faded still more since then. But on this 
mention of him, and this unexpected prospect 
of seeing him again, I began to rub up the mag- 
ical lamp of memory, and to summon the genii 
of the past. 

I believe I had got as far in my recollection 
as our joint discovery of the North Pole, Avhen 
the door was opened, and the parlor-maid an- 
nounced my second visitor that day, 

“Mr. Lacer..” 


■». I 

CHAPTER XII. 

“I AM afraid that perhaps I disturb you, 
Miss Furness,” said Mr. Lacer, coming into the 
room. 

“ Oh no. I AA'as doing nothing. At least, 
I Avas — only thinking.” 

I Avas vexed with myself, as I stammered 
out the Avords, for my shy awkwardness. I 
had been startled, and taken by surprise. Al- 
though really, after a second’s reflection, I 
could discern no reason why Mr. Lacer’s call 
should be particularly surprising to me. He, 
at all events, Avas quite at his ease, and sat 
down, and began to chat Avith me in a pleas- 
ant, off-hand manner, that soon put me at my 
ease also. He had met father riding out at 
the gate, he said, as he Avas about to enter. 
Mr. Furness had been kind enough to ask him 
to go into the house, although he himself was 
unable to turn back with him, having an ap- 
pointment on business with a farmer some 
miles in the country. He was very sorry in- 
deed to learn that Mrs. Furness was unwell. 
NerA'ous headache ! That must be a dread- 
fully trying disorder. He could not say that 
he had ever suffered from it himself; being, 
indeed, generally quite unconscious of his 
nerves ! But Mrs. Furness’s organization Avas 
eA’idently very sensitive and delicate. What a 
charming face she had ! He begged pardon 
for taking the liberty of saying so, but the 
AVords were sincere. He had never seen any 
one who had inspired him with such admira- 
tion and respect at first sight. There Avas an 
atmosphere of grandeur about Mrs. Furness, 


40 


ANNE EURNESS. 


just as there was an atmosphere of sweetness 
about a bed of violets. 

Mother’s praises — and they really seemed 
to be sincerely uttered — were very delightful 
in my ears. I told Mr. Lacer, laughingly, that 
he would be sooner tired of speaking flatteries 
on that score than I should be of hearing 
them. “They are not flatteries, Miss Fur- 
ness,” he protested, earnestly. “ They are the 
sober truth. Or rather, they are part of the 
truth. I must not say all I feel, it seems, for 
fear of acquiring the character of a flatterer in 
your opinion. It is not one I am ambitious 
of.” 

Then he spoke of my father, and said he had 
seen him the day after the races at Horsing- 
ham. 

“ Where did you see him ?” said I, impuls- 
ively. My reason for asking was, that the 
great betting-rooms in the High Street were 
usually the goal of father’s pilgrimages to 
Horsingham during the race-week, and won- 
dered whether Mr. Lacer had frequented them 
also. 

“At my own rooms,” he answered, quietly. 
“ At a little lodging I had for the week in an 
obscure street, called Burton’s Gardens. One 
might have had apartments in Piccadilly for very 
little more than I paid for two cupboards in a 
cottage there. But you know. Miss Furness — / 
or, perhaps, happily for you, you don’t know — 
how insatiably rapacious a creature your thor- 
ough-bred Horsingham householder becomes at 
race-time. He’s like some horrible animal that 
gorges itself to repletion at one meal, and then 
goes to sleep until it is hungry again. How'- 
ever,” he added, laughing, “ since the Plorsing- 
ham householder only eats — in that sense — 
twice a year, I suppose we must pardon his 
greediness !” 

“ What is the name of the people with whom 
you lodged in Burton’s Gardens?” I asked, 
struck with a sudden idea. 

“ Really I can’t tell you ! I know the num- 
ber of the house: it is eighteen.” 

“And the name of the people is Kitchen ?” 

“ I think — Yes ; upon my word, I believe 
you are right !” 

“ Oh yes, I know those people. The daugh- 
ter is called Alice, and is a fair, handsome 
young woman.” 

“ Y — yes. A large, healthy, blue-eyed girl. 
Not precisely what I should call handsome. 
To me there is no beauty in woman that can 
compensate for the absence of refinement. But, 
fortunately, tastes differ.” 

I felt slightly confused under the gaze Mr. 
Lacer bent upon me as he said the words. 
Vanity and pride were having a conflict with- 
in me that made my cheeks glow. Vanity 
pronounced that a compliment to my good 
looks was intended. Pride shyly declared that 
it would run no risk of unduly appropriating 
admiration; and that, moreover, the admira- 
tion which preferred me to Alice Kitchen was 
of no overwhelmingly high kind. 


“ Alice is a very good girl,” I said, hurriedly. 

Mr. Lacer did not doubt that. He thought, 
if he might trenture to say so, that she was in- 
clined to be at ^le trenchant in her manner, 
and a little lor^wdnded in her conversation. 
But those were not characteristics peculiar to 
Alice ; they were very general among Horsing- 
ham people of her class. Did I not think so ? 
Not rare, indeed, among Horsingham people 
of any class. He knew that Dr. Hewson was 
not a native of the town, or he would not have 
made the remark. But, upon his word, he 
had observed so striking a difference between 
my mother’s manner — (he added, and between 
my manner too) — and the manner of the ma- 
jority of the company at Sir Peter Bunny’s 
house, that he had made up his mind at once 
that we were not of their town. And this im- 
pression had been confirmed by an inquiry or 
two he had made. He hoped I was not of- 
fended ? 

“Not at all offended,” I answered. “Why 
should I be offended ? Most people in Hors- 
ingham knew that my grandfather settled here 
rather late in life. It is no secret.” 

“Mr. Furness, your father, don’t count 
among the Horsingham folks. He is country 
bred. That’s different,” said Mr. Lacer, care- 
lessly. 

“Did you — have you known father long?” 
I asked. “I don’t remember — I mean I nev- 
er heard — ” 

“You never heard him mention my name?” 
he answered readily, finishing my broken sen- 
tence for me. “ Well, that is not very surpris- 
ing. I can easily conceive that Mr. Furness 
has more interesting topics to discuss in the 
bosom of his family than a chance acquaint- 
ance made on a race-course.” He laughed as 
he said this. He laughed rather often. He 
had fine white teeth, and his laugh was very 
frank and pleasant. 

“Oh,” said I, musingly, “it was on a race- 
course that you first met father ?” 

“Yes, at W . I thought I mentioned 

it to you. I don’t habitually frequent all the 
race-courses in England, Miss Furness, I beg 
you to believe, although I fear that you wdll 
begin to think so !” 

I said, impulsively, that I was glad to hear it. 

“Are you? Are you really glad? I’m 
afraid I can’t flatter myself that you quite 
mean what you say.” He was not laughing 
now, but looked very earnest, almost sad. “Do 
you know. Miss Furness,” he went on, after a 
few minutes’ silence, “ there is scarcely a hu- 
man being left in the world who could be made 
glad or sorry by any thing I do or leave un- 
done !” 

As he seemed to wait for me to speak, I 
murmured (struggling hard with a rapidly in- 
creasing fit of shyness), “Is there not?” 

“No. It makes a fellow very forlorn, or 
very reckless, or both together, to feel that 
whether he goes full-tilt to the deuce or not 
matters to nobody.” 


ANNE FURNESS. 


41 


“ It matters to himself, does it not ?” I stam- 
mered. 

“Oh, to himself! Well — to himself. A 
fellow can’t live for himself alone. At least, I 
can’t. I lost my mother years ago, when I 
was a little chap ; so little, that they lifted me 
up to kiss her in her coffin. I have neither 
brother, nor sister, nor uncle, nor aunt, nor 
cousin. My father is living ; but he married 
again, a few years ago, a grasping, hard wo- 
man who — But I beg you a thousand par- 
dons, Miss Furness ! I am prosing on about 
myself in the most unwarrantable manner. 
You listen so kindly and gently that I was led 
on to say what I had not the least right in the 
world to trouble you with. And I, who have 
been^ accusing the good people of Horsingham 
of being long-winded and tedious ! I hope 
you will forgive me, I do indeed.” 

I told him there was no need of forgiveness, 
and shook hands with him as he rose to go 
away. 

“I forgot to mention that I saw your cous- 
ins the other day. Miss Furness,” said he. The 
same amused and half-repressed smile stole 
over his face that I remembered to have seen 
there when he had been honored by Miss Tilly’s 
playful reproaches on the race-course. 

“Oh!” said I. 

“Yes; I went to their house to luncheon 
on Wednesday last. Mr. Sam Cudberry came 
to fetch me, and I couldn’t get out of it ; I — I 
mean he was so very cordial and pressing, that 
it was impossible to refuse.” 

“ Oh !” said I again. 

“ I suppose I shall have the pleasure of see- 
ing you at Woolling before long?” 

“Seeing me there? I can not tell. We 
don’t go there very often. It is rather a long 
drive for mother, now the weather is getting 
chilly and the days short.” 

“ Oh ! but you’ll be at the ball, won’t you ?” 

“Eh?” 

“The ball. Miss Cudberry told me they 
were going to give a ball. I thought you must 
have known of it.” 

“ I suppose we shall be told in due time. I 
had heard nothing of it.” 

“ May I ask you to express to Mrs, Furness 
how sorry I am to hear of her indisposition? 
If you will allow me, I will pass out by the 
garden — that way, is it not? — for I left my 
horse in charge of a servant, and — ” 

“ You are riding, then ? Mr. Lacer, I am 
afraid it is possible that Flower, our groom, 
was impertinently familiar in his manner to 
you the other day. I hope you will check him 
severely if he should repeat the offense. He 
is apt to be forward. I believe — my father 
says, that he is an efficient servant, and under- 
stands his duties. But I know father would 
be very angry if he thought the man failed in 
respect to any of our guests.” 

“Oh, don’t think any more about it. Miss 
Furness. I remember he was rather free-and- 
easy the other day, but I suppose he had been 


a little too convivial. The fact is, I have no 
doubt the man recognized me as an old ac- 
quaintance. I knew — that is, I was slightly 
acquainted with a person in whose sendee he 
was. I have a good memory for faces, and his 
was familiar to me directly I saw it. I assure 
you he was perfectly well-behaved when he 
took my horse just now.” 

Mr. Lacer made his adieu, and went his way. 
When he was gone I was less able to fix my 
mind on my books than ever. “ Oh dear, oh 
dear ! ” I said to myself, pushing a volume away 
from me impatiently, “what has come to me? 
The words might be Egyptian hieroglyphics 
for all the meaning they convey to my mind !” 

I gave up trying to study, and abandoned 
myself to a reverie. The day seemed to have 
been croAvded with incidents. The visit of 
Matthew and Selina Kitchen, grandfather’s 
news about Donald, Mr. Lacer’s call, and all 
that he had said, furnished abundant subjects 
to think upon. The relative importance of the 
day’s occurrences could not be doubtful ; yet 
my girlish brain by no means busied itself chief- 
ly with the chief of them. What does the 
reader think was the most tangible subject of 
my musings ? (for there was an airy crowd of 
fancies fluttering hither and thither in my mind, 
melting and changing like April clouds, and to 
Avhich I did not consciously give a local habita- 
tion or a name). It Avas the forthcoming ball 
at Woolling! A ball at Uncle Cudberry’s! 
The thing was marvelous — unprecedented! 
Tilly, Henny, and Clemmy must intend to 
“ move with the times,” and inflict themselves 
on society in fell earnest. How they had in- 
duced their father to consent to the necessary 
expenditure was a matter for wondering specu- 
lation. 

And what does the reader guess Avas the 
next topic on wTiich my thoughts were intent ? 
I am minded to be quite candid, and to that 
end I must confess that it was an entirely self- 
ish one. Amidst all the hopes and fears, the 
dimly presaged troubles, and the present anx- 
ieties that pressed around myself and those 
whom I loved, my fancy lightly turned to pic- 
turing what dress I should, could, or might 
wear if I went to the aforesaid ball at Woolling. 
Debating if it were more advisable to beg for pale 
rose-color or pure white, and Avondering Avheth- 
er mother AA’Ould let me wear a flower in my hair. 

Suddenly, as I pushed a lock of hair off my 
forehead, in the full gloAv of imagining hoAv I 
should look Avith a spray of scarlet geranium 
fixed above one ear, a subtile association of 
ideas which I can not folloAV out — nor could I 
then — brought vividly before my mind’s eye the 
tiny figure of little Jane Arkwright in her chair, 
playing with the uncouth dice of rough fire- 
wood. And that tiny figure conjured up in an 
instant all the poverty and dreariness and 
toils and troubles of that struggling household. 
I had often asked myself in my impulsive sym- 
pathy, was there nothing I could do to lighten 
Mrs. ArkAvright’s load of care, or cheer her hus- 


42 


ANNE EURNESS. 


band’s anxious spirit? There was one way, 
and, as far as I knew, one only, in which I 
might show good-will, and make a portion of 
the good man’s labors pleasant to him — I might 
do my tasks earnestly and zealously, and grat- 
ify him by my improvement. And this one 
simple thing I was neglecting, in order to 
dream of tricking myself out in finery, and en- 
joying myself in the company of hard, frivo- 
lous people, whom at bottom I neither loved 
nor respected. I hung my head as though I 
were abashed by some bodily presence in the 
room ; and the tears welled up into my eyes as I 
thought of Mrs. Arkwright’s toilsome life, and of 
Mrs. Arkwright’s shabby little children, of whom 
the younger had neither petting nor playthings, 
and the elder were precociously thoughtful and 
grave, and full of careful responsibilities about 
the preservation of their worn little frocks and 
their patched little shoes. 

I opened my books again, and sat down to 
work resolutely. At first it was difficult to 
attend to what I was doing. But by degrees 
I compelled my wandering attention ; and after 
an hour or so I had completed an exercise and 
a page or two of translation, into which neither 
white frock nor adornment of scarlet blossoms 
had intruded ; and if any thing else — any one 
else, I mean — did flit across the page, it was 
not — or I honestly persuaded myself that it was 
not — in connection with my exclusively selfish 
fancies. 

♦ 

CHAPTER XIII. 

“And so,” said my grandfather, finishing 
a recital brief indeed, but longer than he was 
in the habit of making his speeches, “Donald 
rejects the army as a profession altogether. He 
says ’tis a bad trade when business is brisk in 
it, and a worse to be idle in.” 

“Yet his father is a soldier,” said I. 

“A good one : that I must take on trust. I 
know him to be a good man ; but he would be 
neither if he followed his calling with an in- 
ward conviction of its worthlessness. That is 
a canker that rots every thing, beginning at 
the very core. Donald being left entirely free 
to choose his profession, chooses medicine.” 

“And comes to you to learn it? He could 
not do better, grandfather.” 

“ He might do worse, perhaps. But we shall 
see, little Nancy, we shall see.” 

Grandfather had never relinquished my old 
pet name of “ little Nancy,” though I had long 
outgrown it in a literal sense. He told me 
further, that Donald Ayrlie would one day be 
the master of a sufficient fortune to be idle on 
if he so pleased ; his father being a careful, 
steady, hard-working officer, whose long career 
in India had enabled him to amass an inde- 
pendence, which there was only Donald to in- 
herit. But Donald, naturally and properly, 
said grandfather, desired to qualify himself to 
do some work in the world. The prospect of 
lounging through life on the strength of his 


expectations was not an alluring prospect to 
him. His father might live thirty years (and 
if the lad’s wishes could keep him alive, he 
would never die) ; or he might chuck his money 
into the maelstrom of speculation, though that 
was not likely; or he might take it into his 
head to marry again. In short, there was no 
fortune so desirable for a young man as the 
knowledge of something serviceable to his fel- 
low-creatures, and the industry and good-will 
to apply it. 

Thus my grandfather. He was in a glow 
of pleased expectation about Donald’s coming ; 
I had not seen him so bright and cheerful for 
a long time, not that he was gloomy or ill-hu- 
mored ever. But latterly there had been a 
set stern thoughtfulness on his brow, and he 
was very silent. I could not help connecting 
these symptoms wdth the anxious care that 
might be read on mother’s face whenever she 
was neither speaking nor smiling. It had come 
to pass gradually ; and yet, Avhen I thought of 
the change in mother, it sometimes appeared to 
me to have been startlingly sudden. I was 
tempted more than once to tell grandfather of 
what I had heard pass between my father and 
Mat Kitchen. It had made me uneasy AA'hen- 
ever I had thought of it since. But I reflected 
that I had no right to reveal to any one that 
which I had accidentally overheard ; and that, 
moreover, father had seemed to demand that I 
should be discreet and silent on the subject by 
the words he had said, “I tell you this in con- 
fidence, Anne” — so I held my tongue. 

I was staying at Mortlands for the day and 
the night. I had been to Mr. Arkwright’s, and 
had got through my lessons with credit. And 
I had conceived and executed a great project, 
having first obtained my grandfather’s permis- 
sion : this was neither more nor less than invit- 
ing all Mrs. Arkwright’s children to tea and a 
game of play that afternoon at Mortlands. It 
seems a simple matter enough to tell of, but it 
was hedged with thorny difficulties. First, 
there was Mrs. Arkwright’s constitutional ob- 
jection to, and fear of, her children “ taking to” 
strangers too much ; then there Avas the obsta- 
cle of their clothes being “too shabby for a 
company;” then there Avas the apprehension 
that cakes and sweets, and so on, would have 
the effect of spoiling them for their home fare. 
And, lastly, there was the difficulty of inducing 
Mrs. ArkAvright to believe my solemn assur- 
ances that the little ones should be sent home 
by nine o’clock, in order that they might be up 
in time for school the next morning. But Mr. 
Arkwright and I together, aided by a powerful 
though unacknowledged ally — the strong desire 
in Mrs. Arkwright’s maternal breast to give 
her children what gratification she could in their 
someAvhat hard young lives — fought and con- 
quered. They should all come, Lizzie and 
Martha and Mary and Teddy, and my particu- 
lar friend Jane. Eliza A\^as to be sent for them 
at three o’clock in a fly, and they Avere to re- 
turn in the same conveyance, and under the 


ANNE FURNESS. 


43 


same escort, in the evening. Grandfather 
made only one condition on the occasion : 
“When yon give an entertainment of this na- 
ture, Miss Furness,” said he, gravely, “ I think, 
perhaps, to call it a rout would more properly 
characterize it than any other title ; all I ask is, 
that you don’t expect me to be present. There 
is the garden ; there is the big dining-room ; 
there is Keturah with unlimited flour and but- 
ter and jam ; and, in brief, every material for 
biliousness that the most tender lover of child- 
hood could desire to bestow on it, and orders to 
deal them out royally. You won’t grudge me 
a little peace in the retirement of my study after 
dinner ; and you won’t feel hurt if I ask for my 
tea there also, instead of joining the festive 
throng in the dining-room.” 

I laughed, and kissed him, and said, I was so 
grateful to him for letting the children come, 
that I would not tease him. But I added that 
I thought they would like to see him, if only for 
five minutes. 

“Pooh! stuff and nonsense, little Nancy. 
I should bother them. Their only association 
with me is an empty spoon holding their poor 
little jaws open ; and a full spoon containing 
‘ nasty physic’ to follow ! ” 

He had in fact attended the curate’s children 
for a throat disorder that had broken out among 
them ; and had, I need scarcely add, steadily 
refused to accept any payment for so doing. 

Mrs. Abram was, I was sorry to find, some- 
what flustered by the prospect of the threatened 
inroad on the peace and privacy of Mortlands. 
She had become rather redder in the face, rather 
huskier in the voice, rather more despondent in 
the temper, rather more vague and wandering 
in the mind, rather “ odder” altogether, of late 
years. But she was tearfully anxious to do her 
best for the entertainment of the small visitors. 
I assured her that they were the best and quiet- 
est children I knew ; that they were grave and 
steady beyond their years ; and that, so far from 
being riotous or overflowing with good spirits, I 
expected our difficulty would be to screw them 
up to the point of thoroughly enjoying them- 
selves for once in a way. 

“Ah!” murmured Mrs. Abram, “and then 
you see their father’s a clergyman. That is a 
satisfaction ; but otherwise it is dreadful when 
you see a lot of little innocents like them to re- 
member that he is lying in wait for ’em !” 

She uttered the last words in a mysterious 
and awe-stricken whisper, and glanced round 
over her shoulder in a way that was calculated 
to make any one who happened to be nervous 
or fanciful decidedly uncomfortable. How- 
ever, Keturah and I between us managed to 
get her into a little less lugubrious frame of 
mind before the little ones’ arrival. I confided 
to Keturah that Mrs. Abram was “a little low 
this afternoon,” and Keturah immediately set 
about the process which she characterized as 
“routing her up a bit.” Keturah, in right of 
her long and faithful service, was a privileged 
person at Mortlands. And she had — I think 


insensibly — copied many of her master’s ways 
and sayings. Her method of treating Mrs. 
Abram was in fact founded on my grand- 
father’s. 

“Come, now, Mrs. Abram,” said Keturah, 
bustling into the dining-room, “ here’s Eliza 
putting on her bonnet to go and fetch them 
bairns, and nobody but me in the kitchen to 
get things ready. I should be ever so obliged 
to you if you’d tie on a apron — here’s a clean 
white one as I’ve fetched a purpose — and come 
and measure out some sugar for me.” 

Mrs. Abram rose meekly to comply, but she 
shook her head as though it were full of the 
direst presages. 

“All, dear me, Keturah,” she said, with her 
lower jaw dropped and her mouth curved down- 
ward until it resembled that of a codfish, “I 
hope it mayn’t be evil, all this feasting and 
junketing and pampering of our vile bodies!” 

“Well, there’s no need for you to pamper 
yours, you know,” was Keturah ’s practical re- 
joinder. “If you think short-cake and jam 
puffs sinful, don’t you eat none, that’s all ! But 
you know who it is as finds some mischief still 
for idle hands to do ; and p’r’aps he finds mis- 
chief for idle heads into the bargain. My opin- 
ion is as you’ll be comfortabler in your mind 
when you give your attention to the weighing 
out o’ the sugar. And please be partic’lar to a 
pennyweight, Mrs. Abram, for in short-cake 
the quantities must be exact.” 

In due time arrived the fly full of the little 
Arkwrights. I could have cried to see the 
painful neatness of their poor attire ; the speck- 
less, threadbare, stuff frocks, the skillfully darn- 
ed stockings, the little rusty boots that had been 
“toed,” or “heeled,” or “soled,” as the case 
might be. The only means that had been un- 
stintingly — nay, lavishly — employed for their 
embellishment was the application of soap and 
water, comb and brush. And I noticed round 
the fair little throat of my small friend Jane a 
solitary string of coral beads with a queer little 
gold clasp. The mother’s heart could not re- 
sist decking her youngest darling with this or- 
nament. Lizzie, the eldest child — a grave, 
dark-eyed little girl of ten — evidently looked 
on Jane’s necklace as a priceless heir-loom. Her 
mamma had worn it when she was a small child, 
she informed me ; and she kept it locked in a 
box. Lizzie knew there w'ere some letters in 
the box. She thought they were letters writ- 
ten by her papa, because it was like his hand- 
writing. She (Lizzie) hoped that Jane would 
be careful not to pull at the necklace, because 
the string might break and the beads would 
roll on the floor, and some of them might be 
lost, and then what should they do? But Jane 
was a very good child in general, and not rough 
or careless with her clothes. 

Meanwhile this exemplary young person, 
aged three, was toddling along the garden path 
holding by the hand of Martha, the second 
child, and observing the flower-beds with sol- 
emn interest. It Avas, as I have said, late in 


44 


ANNE EURNESS. 


the autumn, and there was not much color or 
perfume in the garden. But the little things 
enjoyed it, being new and fresh to them ; and 
Master Teddy became quite excited when I 
showed him the place where Robinson Crusoe’s 
cave had been. I could not find the North 
Pole, nor did Teddy care very much about that. 
He had never before heard of De Foe’s immor- 
tal fiction, so I had enough to do in giving him 
a slight sketch of the story, while we all wan- 
dered about the garden, and I pointed out, as 
well as my memory served me, the various 
spots in which Donald and I had enacted it to- 
gether. By the time I had finished it was 
growing dusk, and we all went into the dining- 
room, where a good bright fire looked cheer- 
ful and welcoming. 

As one or two of the children complained of 
their feet and hands being cold, I proposed a 
game of puss-in-the-corner to warm them be- 
fore tea. We pushed the table to one side, 
and I sent for Eliza to take care of little Jane, 
while I joined the other four children in a fa- 
mous romp. Little Jane was not strong or 
active enough to take much part in our game ; 
but she sat on a stool beside Eliza (she declined 
to be taken on to the servant’s knee, in a cer- 
tain independent, self-sustained little way that 
belonged to her), and looked on attentively; 
occasionally forming the words, “puss, puss, 
puss,” with her lips, but uttering no sound. 

Then came tea, over W'hich Mrs. Abram pre- 
sided with great kindness, but with an expres- 
sion on her countenance, when she regarded 
the little Arkwrights, which seemed to say, in 
the words of Gray, “How all unconscious of 
their doom the little victims play!” However, 
the children, being unconscious not only of their 
doom, but of Mrs. Abram’s apprehensions, de- 
voted themselves with ardor to the jam puff’s 
and short-cake, and enjoyed themselves im- 
mensely. The entertainment was most suc- 
cessful. There was only one interruption to its 
perfect harmony, and even this was but a pass- 
ing cloud. It arose from Teddy’s unexpected 
resistance to having his pinafore tied on just 
before we went to table. Five clean coarse 
pinafores had been intrusted to Eliza’s charge 
by Mrs. Arkwright, with strict injunctions that 
they were to be worn during all the time of 
eating and drinking ; but against this humilia- 
ting precaution Teddy’s manly soul rebelled. 
In vain Eliza and I coaxed and argued with 
him. Pinafores were all very well for girls, he 
said ; pinafores were all very well for babies ; 
he was neither a girl nor a baby ; and when he 
was invited out to tea he begged most posi- 
tively to decline donning his pinafore. But 
Teddy was subdued by that which had van- 
quished masculine resolution before his day, 
namely, feminine tears. Poor Lizzie began to 
cry, and then Martha and Mary — for no better 
reason than that they saw her crying — began to 
cry too. Little Jane did not weep, but she 
went through the motion of slapping with her 
mite of a hand, and said, “Teddy naughty,” 


with judicial severity. Upon this Teddy yield- 
ed, saying, grandly, that if they were such 
“ cry-babbies” (for which Lizzie mildly rebuked 
him, and observed that it was a low expression 
he had picked up at school) as all that, why he 
supposed he must let them put on the stupid 
old jackass of a pinafore. He didn’t mind, 
then. On with it ! Teddy’s ruffled feelings 
seemed to find relief in calling his pinafore a 
stupid old jackass, and he repeated the epithet 
more than once. I whispered to Lizzie to take 
no notice of this little ebullition, and she dried 
her tears, and kissed her brother; and then 
Martha and Mary dried their tears, and kissed 
iim also ; and little Jane, looking on with 
bright, attentive eyes, pronounced, as from the 
bench, “Teddy dood now.” And we were 
all very pleasant and cheerful again directly. 
Only Mrs. Abram murmured behind her hand 
to me, in a voice that fortunately was unintelligi- 
ble to unaccustomed ears, “My dear Anne, did 
you notice? Poor little fellow! he had a try 
at him. He put that naughtiness into the 
child’s mind. Of course he did. He can’t 
bear to see ’em good and happy. I could fancy 
I saw him hovering around.” And Mrs. Abram 
glanced over her shoulder again quite awfully. 

After tea we made a wide semicircle round 
the fire, and I asked the children if they knew 
any games to play at. They were not much 
versed in games of play, poor little things, but 
they were very docile and willing to learn ; 
and Lizzie informed me that Mary could “say 
poetry off" by heart.” So I begged for a speci- 
men of Mary’s accomplishments, which she ac- 
corded forthwith. Mary was the next in age 
to Jane, and was five years old. Next above 
her came Teddy, aged seven ; and above him 
Martha, nine ; and Lizzie, ten. Mary was a 
very fat child ; different in this respect from 
the others, who were slight and spare. She 
had great black eyes, and curling dark hair, 
and mottled legs that overhung her little socks, 
and fat dimpled arms ; and her very voice was 
fat and husky, with rich contralto tones in it ; 
and in this voice she began with baby accents 
that were not yet perfectly articulate : 

“Pity de so-yows of a poo-wold-man 
Who t^mhlin line au’ b’6ught him to you door;” 

repeating it all through without any stops, and 
taking breath in gasps whenever she happened 
to want it. 

This performance was received with much 
applause. Then the children petitioned me 
to tell them a story. Lizzie was spokeswoman, 
and the others all joined in chorus. “Yes, 
please, do, Miss Furness ! A story ! a story ! ” 
Little Jane, who was seated on the low hassock 
at my feet, put up her hand to take mine ; and 
leaning her soft little cheek against it, said, in 
a decisive and corroborative manner, as though 
to express her agreement with the public wish 
on this occasion, “Et — dat’s yight. Oo Jo.'” 

So, after thinking for a minute or so, I told 
them I would give them a fairy story. A shout 
of acclamation greeted this announcement. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


45 


Then I said that I thought stories sounded 
prettier by fire-light than by lamp-light. This 
being unanimously carried also, we had the 
lamp taken away, the fire mended, a log being 
added to the coals, and then, amidst a breath- 
less hush on the part of my small audience, 
and a mingled sound of crackling and seeth- 
ing, that sounded like a subdued and ghostly 
whisper, from the fire, I began. 



CHAPTER XIV. 


“ Once upon a time there were two children, 
twin brother and sister. The boy’s name was 
Walter, and the girl’s name was Lily. Walter 
was a dark child, with deep brown eyes and 
raven hair ; little Lily, on the contrary, was as 
fair as the flower she took her name from. 
Her eyes were blue, like the bits of clear sky 
that you see in April peeping between the 
clouds, and her soft hair was just the color 
of the down on the wing of a half-fledged 
chicken. 

“These two children loved each other very 
dearly, and were always together. They lived 
in a village ; and one of their great delights 
was to go down to the smith’s forge at dusk, 
and watch the showers of sparks leap out of 
the blackness and melt into it again. They 
loved, too, to watch the dull deep glow of the 
red-hot iron and the intense heart of the furnace, 
that seemed more terrible in its quiet concen- 
tration of white implacable heat, than when 
the roaring bellows moved it into flame ; but 
that was beautiful though, to see the waving 
brightness shoot up and shake vividly upon the 
smoke-blackened roof and then fall again, while 
monstrous shadows bowed and beckoned mys- 
teriously, to be in their turn chased away by 
the clear victorious flame. It was all living 
in their childish fancy. The sparks had life, 
and danced and flew enjoyingly. The great 
bellows labored like a chained monster. The 
light and shadow chased each other like elf 
and goblin, fairy and witch, spiritual creatures 
whose aims were good or evil, kind or cruel.” 

Here I was recalled to myself by a curious 
sound' from Mrs. Abram. It was something 
like an incipient whooping-cough followed by 
a husky long-drawn “Ah-h-h!” and was in- 
tended — as I knew by former experience — to 
express a mournful and warning allusion to 
the direful subject on which she so much la- 
mented my grandfather’s indifference. Odd- 
ly as Mrs. Abram’s inarticulate interjection 
sounded, I was sensible of some obligations to 
it in recalling me to a sense of what I was do- 
ing and for whom. For I had been giving my 
imagination the rein, and it had carried me 
somewhat beyond the children’s comprehen- 
sion. 

“In short,” said I, resuming my story, “Wal- 
ter and Lily went so often to the blacksmith’s 
forge, and watched the furnace so attentive- 
ly, that they grew quite familiar with the fire, 


and knew almost every look of it, whether it 
were dull or bright or quiet or fierce — glowing 
crimson like the setting sun, or flaming yellow 
like the great round harvest-moon; and they 
got to know all the different aspects of the 
forge. Well, now Walter liked it best when it 
was bright and all ablaze with light, so that 
you could see every nook and cranny quite 
plainly. Lily loved the times when the forge 
was dimmer, and when there were corners and 
hiding-places that you could fancy any thing 
you liked about, because the shadows lurked 
there and made them very mysterious. By de- 
grees these two children, who had always been 
so gentle and loving to each other, began to 
grow quite cross and unkind. They disputed 
which was the best, the broad glare or the twi- 
light glow. Walter said Lily was a little baby 
who loved the darkness. Lily said that Wal- 
ter was very stupid to prefer being scorched by 
a fierce glare, instead of liking the soft shelter 
of the shadow when the furnace fire was low. 
So they disputed and argued until they both 
said a great deal more than they meant, each 
wishing to get the better of the other, rather 
than caring to say the exact truth, which is a 
sad thing to do ; but then Walter and Lily were 
only ignorant little children. Of course, if they 
had been grown-up, learned men, they would 
not have done so.” 

“Wouldn’t they?” said Teddy, doubtfully. 

“I — I hope not. I suppose not, Teddy.” 

“Ah ! but perhaps they might though !” re- 
joined that young scholar, “because I was 
reading in my ‘Useful Knowledge’ the other 
day that a man found out about the earth going 
round the sun ; I forget his name. He wasn’t 
an Englishman ; and, instead of listening to 
what he had to tell them, they were ever so 
angry, because it was different to what they 
had believed before, and they put him in prison, 
and went on to him — oh, ever so cruel!” 

“Naughty mans !” said Jane, who had only 
comprehended that some persons unknown were 
cruel, and that Teddy was indignant. It was 
quaint enough to see the contrast between 
Jane’s Rhadamanthine sternness of condemna- 
tion and the soft helplessness of her baby body 
as she sat with her little tender cheek leaning 
against my hand. 

“Well, never mind now, Teddy,” exclaimed 
Lizzie. “P/ease go on. Miss Furness.” Lizzie 
was drinking in the story greedily, quite un- 
troubled by any critical objections. 

“Well, and so at last the brother and sister 
came to quarreling outright. Instead of en- 
joying themselves in the fields and gardens, 
and delighting in the sweet smell of the flow- 
ers, and the beautiful leafy trees, and the clear 
river, and the soft grass, they were always 
wrangling and carrying their dispute about 
with them. If the sun shone brightly, Lily 
said it dazzled her, and she could not bear it. 
If there was a cool, shady spot under a broad, 
green tree, Walter pretended to shiver and 
shudder, and would not stay to enjoy it. In a 


4G 


ANNE EUENESS. 


word, at length their quarrel grew to such a 
height that Lily declared she detested the day, 
and Walter, that he hated the night ; each 
meaning to vex and jeer at the other. And 
their little hearts were full of anger and pain. ” 

“Ah, to be sure!” murmured Mrs. Abram. 
“ That was just the thing for him. He wasn’t 
going to lose such a chance as that, you know ! 
Not likely.” 

“Still Walter and Lily went nearly every 
evening to the forge and watched the fire, and 
watched the gloom, and sat on a little bench 
which the blacksmith had had made on purpose 
for them. He was a very good-natured, hon- 
est blacksmith, and very kind and gentle to 
dumb animals, and little children, and all weak 
creatures, though he was so terribly strong and 
tall, and though he looked very swarthy and 
fierce when his eyes shone in the fire-light. 
They sat there side by side, this little brother 
and sister, and spoke never a word to each 
other. Or, if they did say a word, it was sure 
to be a bitter and unkind one.' But they most- 
ly sat sulky and silent : Lily slinking back on 
her corner of the bench into the shadow, and 
Walter straining forward on corner of the 
bench until his cheeks were scorched with the 
glare. 

“This went on for a long time ; but at length 
the autumn came and the days grew short, and 
the nights were chilly, and the children were 
forbidden to go to the forge any more until the 
spring should come again. But they begged 
to go once more, just for the last time, on 
Halloween, and this was granted to them. 
Now you must know that Halloween is a night 
when all sorts of sprites and fairies are very 
busy, and when they visit mortals a great deal, 
and join unseen in their sports and merry- 
makings. At least they used to do so in the 
old days, when there were sprites and fairies 
and goblins. They are never seen now. But 
the time when Walter and Lily lived was an 
old time, and in their days the fairies were 
still busy on Halloween.” 

“How long ago was it?” asked Martha, a 
pale, contemplative child, who had been very 
quiet and attentive. 

“It was in quite another age of the world, 
Martha ; when the world was in its childhood.” 

“ Is that why children love fairy stories now 
more than grown-up people ?” 

“Perhaps. Very likely, Martha. Well, 
accordingly Walter and Lily went to the black- 
smith’s forge oh Halloween, and sat themselves 
down on the bench, and stared — Walter at the 
red fire and Lily at the black forge, and they 
said never a word. Halloween was a holiday 
for the blacksmith. He went home and washed 
the blackness from his face and hands, and 
played and made merry with his children. 
And his chief workmen went away too ; and 
there was no one left but a lame apprentice, 
who was told to keep the furnace fire alight, 
for later in the evening the blacksmith and his 
men were coming back to finish a job they had 


in hand. But Walter and Lily sat there side 
by side, and stared — Walter at the red fire, and 
Lily at the black forge — and they said never a 
word. It was all very still and quiet. The 
lame apprentice had curled himself up in a 
warm corner, with his pipe in his mouth, and 
seemed to be going to sleep. The fire that he 
ought to have replenished sank lower and low- 
er, and it grew very cold and almost dark. But 
still, there sat Walter and Lily staring — he at 
the red dying embers and she at the black 
forge — and they said never a word. 

“All at once they became aw^are of the 
faintest sweet sound, the tiniest clear music 
you can imagine. It grew, scarcely louder, 
but clearer and clearer, plainer and plainer, and 
at last it ceased with one long-drawn sound, 
which was sweeter and richer than all the oth- 
ers, and which — strange to say! — seemed to 
come out of the throat of the great bellows ; 
and suddenly there stood before the children 
two wonderful little figures not more than a 
span high.” 

“How jolly!” exclaimed Teddy, in irre- 
pressible delight. Little Jane cried “Dolly!” 
in an attempt to imitate her brother ; but then, 
hearing Lizzie whisper “Hush-sh-sh, Teddy!” 
she too pouted her lips, and said, “ Hus-s-s-s !” 
and held up an absurd morsel of a warning 
finger with infinite solemnity. 

“The two figures,” I went on, “w'ere the 
figures of two beautiful tiny women. It was 
impossible to tell whether they rose out of the 
embers or hovered over them, or whether they 
stood firmly or floated self-supported in the 
air. But they seemed in some mysterious 
way to belong to the fire, and to partake of its 
nature. They were very different from each 
other though, except in size. One of the 
beautiful little women was so bright and brill- 
iant that it almost dazzled you to look at her. 
Her hair was like burnished gold, and her eyes 
like diamonds ; and she wore a floating robe of 
the most brilliant hues, that seemed to change 
through all gradations of color, from the gold- 
en-purple of a pigeon’s breast up to pure daz- 
zling white. The other tiny figure was all 
dark. Her hair was like the deepest shades in a 
woodland thicket. Her eyes -were of the color 
of a violet-hued cloud that lingers in the sky 
when the sun has set. Her garment, loose 
and flowing, like that of her companion, varied, 
as she moved or breathed, from sombre shades, 
like those upon the sea at twilight, or the dark 
green of a leafy forest, to midnight blackness. 
And yet, as the two stood close together, side 
by side, it seemed that each influenced the oth- 
er. Sometimes the robe of the dark figure 
would cast a soft veil of shade over the bright- 
ness of the other. And sometimes the golden- 
hair-ed figure would, as her bright draperies 
moved and fluttered, send little sparkles and 
streaks of dazzling light upon her companion. 
And there was a likeness in their faces, too, 
such as you often see between two sisters. 

“Walter and Lily gazed at them in silence. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


The children were afraid even to breathe, lest 
the beautiful tiny women should vanish. At 
length the bright figure spoke. Her voice was 
like the sound of a clear golden clarion, only 
very, very small. And this is what she said : 

‘“Do you know our names, Walter and 
Lily ?’ 

“The children did not utter a sound; but 
they said ‘ No,’ in their thoughts, and the figure 
seemed to understand them, for she immediate- 
ly answered : 

“ ‘And yet you know ms, and have seen us 
often, often ; and under various shapes. We 
are fairies.’ ” 

Here there was a movement of satisfaction 
among my young auditors, and Mary even 
kicked her fat little legs about in ecstasy. 

“‘We are fairies who haunt this forge. 
And on this night, of all nights in the year, 
we are allowed to reveal ourselves to mortal 
eyes in our true shape. But we are only mem- 
bers of a vast family, some of whom are to be 
found scattered all over the world. My name 
is the Fairy Shine.’ 

“ ‘ And mine, the Fairy Shadow. ’ It was the 
dark fairy who said this, and the tone of her 
voice was rich and soft, as though it were 
breathed through a silver organ-pipe. Only it, 
like her sister’s, was very, very small.” 

“‘We,’ proceeded the Fairy Shine, ‘are 
very diflferent, but we love each other dearly. 
We are never far apart. One of us could not 
exist for long without the other. We try to 
make our different qualities help and serve, 
instead of opposing and hurting, each other.’ 

“ Walter and Lily hung down their heads, 
and their hearts beat very quickly ; for the 
fairy looked piercingly at them with her dia- 
mond eyes as she spoke, and their consciences 
accused them of having behaved to each other 
in a spirit quite different from that of the good 
fairies. And they moved just a little tiny bit 
nearer together, Lily from her end of the 
bench, and Walter from his. 

“‘Who,’ said the Fairy Shadow, ■‘is so un- 
grateful as to speak evil of the blessed bright- 
ness of sunbeam or fire-flame ? Who forgets 
all the cheering warmth they shed, and all the 
beauty that they paint the earth with ?’ 

“‘And who is it,’ said the Fairy Shine, 

‘ who rails against the soft refreshment of the 
shade ? The kind, gentle shade, that protects 
the young lambs at noonday from the strong 
sun, and keeps the tender plants from wither- 
ing, and fills the stream with pleasant showers 
from its dark gray clouds, and brings rest and 
sleep to the earth with the coming of the even- 
tide ; to men tired with labor, and to children 
tired with play ?’ 

“Walter and Lily hung their heads still 
lower, and drew yet a little nearer together ; 
and the two fairies went on speaking, each in 
her melodious voice — that of the Fairy Shine 
like a tiny golden clarion, and that of the Fairy 
Shadow like a tiny silver organ-pipe ; and each 
praised the good qualities of the other; and as 


47 

they spoke, the two children crept closer and 
closer together on their little bench. ‘And 
know, ye vain and ignorant mortals,’ said the 
Fairy Shine, raising her clear voice until it 
seemed to pierce and vibrate into the very 
hearts of the trembling children, ‘ know that it 
is thus Avith all my elfin brothers and sisters 
who haunt this earth. They bear all sorts of 
various names among men, and do all sorts of 
various offices ; but they always are set to their 
tasks in couples, different, like this sister and 
myself, but able, for that very reason, to min- 
ister the better to the different moods and needs 
of mortals. Some dwell around the hearth and 
in the chimney-corner ; some tend the flower- 
beds, and some the unfledged birdlings ; some 
whisper in the ears of little children, and make 
them laugh in merriment, or shed tears of gen- 
tleness and pity ; but they all work together for 
good — those who bring tears quite as much as 
those Avho bring smiles ; the sprite that hushes 
the flowers to sleep under the purple twilight, 
quite as much as his brother sprite who shakes 
the bright detv from their leaves to wake them 
in the rosy dawn ; and the All-wise, the All- 
good’ (at these words both the little figures 
bowed themselves reverently, and over the 
bright form there stole a soft shadow, like a 
dusky mantle, and over the dark form a 
quivering glory, like a moted sunbeam) — ‘He 
sends these various influences to help each 
other and to help the Avorld, and there breathes 
through all a spirit of love — through mirth 
and sorrow, smiles and tears, light and dark- 
ness !’ 

“ At these last words the faint, clear music 
sounded sweetly again in long-drawn chords, 
and the fairies vanished, the light fairy seem- 
ing to fade and be absorbed into the shadow, 
and the dark fairy seeming to brighten and 
melt into the ruby glow of the fire ; and the 
brother and sister, Avho had all this time been 
creeping nearer, nearer, nearer, held out their 
arms and fell, crying and sobbing, on each 
other’s breasts.” 

“And the good lesson Avas not lost on them, 
for they ‘lived happy ever after,’ ” said a deep, 
loAV A'oice. 

“And they learned to know that Shadow 
has its beauty and its use as well as Shine,” 
added another voice, in a strong, clear, chest- 
tenor tone. And I turned round, startled from 
the sort of reverie into Avhich I had allowed 
myself to become absorbed in the telling of my 
story, to see tAvo figures, that might have been 
the Ecalistic nineteenth-century version of my 
fantastic fairy tale, standing close behind me, 
just outside the circle of children — grandfather, 
Avho had spoken first, Avith a flickering shade 
upon his head and face, and sober, neutral- 
tinted garb ; and, smiling frankly, Avith bright, 
earnest blue eyes, and yellow hair, gilt by the 
leaping flame — Donald Ayrlie. 


48 


ANNE FURNESS. 


CHAPTER XV. 

I SPKANG to my feet ; and all the children 
rose also, and faced round and stared at the 
new-comers. 

“Why, we have ‘fluttered the Volscians’ 
with a vengeance ! A couple of hawks in a 
dove-cot would cause nothing like the conster- 
nation we seem to have brought here !” said my 
grandfather. ‘ ‘ Little Nancy, do you know who 
this is?” 

“Mr. Ayrlie,” said I, somewhat stiffly. I 
felt shy and put out at the idea of my fantastic 
story having been overheard by ears it was not 
intended for. 

“ Donald,” said grandfather, quickly. “ Yes ; 
you are right. It is Donald Ayrliei” 

We shook hands, and said “ How do you do” 
in a meaningless kind of way. Altogether, the 
meeting with my old play-fellow was different 
from what I had thought it would be — when I 
had thought about it at all. Grandfather looked 
a little vexed and disappointed. Whether my 
shyness had infected Donald, or whether he 
had brought a store of shyness with him to be 
added to mine, I could not quite tell. But it 
is certain that we were, both of us, frigid and 
silent. 

Grandfather seated himself, and made Don- 
ald draw a chair up in the circle ; and then 
Mrs. Abram had to offer her greetings and bid 
him welcome, which she did in a dazed man- 
ner. I think that Mrs. Abram had not made 
allowance in her own mind for the changes 
which the lapse of time since she had seen 
Donald would be likely to make in him. His 
height seemed to puzzle her. Donald was not 
tall — being of a broad, sturdy figure that gave 
one an impression of combined strength and 
activity — but of course he was taller than he 
had been at eleven years old. And Mrs. 
Abram’s eyes, when she addressed him, were 
invariably directed first to about the middle 
button of his -waistcoat, as though she expected 
to find his head there, and then raised slowly, 
with a surprised expression, until they reached 
his face. His voice, too, appeared to startle 
her by its full, manly tone. I, who from long 
experience understood poor Mrs. Abram’s man- 
ner pretty well, was led to believe that she had 
a confused notion that Donald’s strong voice 
hurt him ; for whenever he spoke she put her 
hand to her throat, and raised her eyes to the 
ceiling compassionately. However, I of course 
kept this discovery — if discovery it were — of 
Mrs. Abram’s state of mind on the subject of 
Donald to myself. And no one else appeared 
to observe it. 

Grandfather explained to us that Donald had 
arrived somewhat sooner than he had expected 
to do, in consequence of finding himself able to 
come straight on to Horsingham without break- 
ing his journey at our county town, as he had 
at first intended. He had traveled all the 
previous night, he said ; but was not tired. He 
had been hungry, he confessed, when he ar- 


rived ; but his old friend, Keturah, had got 
ready some food for him without delay, and he 
had been making a good meal in the doctor’s 
study. 

“Yes,” put in grandfather, “Keturah is a 
first-rate woman — always kind, always alert, 
always with her wits at hand, bright and ready 
for use. And she knows how to welcome an 
old acquaintance heartily. I believe she gave 
you a kiss, didn’t she, Donald ?” 

Donald blushed like a young lady, and laugh- 
ed like a school-boy, and said, “Yes, Sir.” 

“ It wasn’t a Judas kiss, at all events,” said 
grandfather. “ That you may depend on. 
She’s as honest as the sun, is Keturah; and 
if she hadn’t been glad to see you, she wouldn’t 
have kissed you. But she is a good soul — a 
good woman. Yes ; Keturah knows how to 
give a hearty welcome, as if she meant it.” 

I understood very well that grandfather was 
hurt at the coldness of my manner, and intend- 
ed to reprove me for it. But I could not 
help it. I should have been more cordial had 
I not been taken by surprise. But now no 
efforts I could make availed to remove con- 
straint from my manner. Nay, my efforts had 
a contrary effect ; so I was fain to sit still and 
silent, unless I were spoken to, and pass for a 
stupid, stiff, missish young person. 

Grandfather passed his hand once or twice 
through his “mane,” and looked round upon 
the children, who had remained as quiet as mice 
since his entrance. His face grew brighter as 
he looked, and he smiled kindly on them, and 
patted Teddy on the head. “ That’s a man !” 
said grandfather. “You’re not afraid of me, 
are you ?” 

“No !” said Teddy, stoutly, looking up into 
his interlocutor’s face. 

Grandfather patted the child’s head again 
and smiled. He had a great horror of inspir- 
ing fear or awe. I believe he Ijad hesitated to 
come among the little Arkwrights, partly be- 
cause he fancied they might show some dread 
of him as “the Doctor.” With the gentlest 
heart in the world, his manner was stern at 
times ; but of this he was quite unconscious, 
and was grieved and surprised if he perceived 
any traces of timidity or subjection .in the be- 
havior of young people toward himself. The 
little Arkwrights, however, were too mere chil- 
dren to show either. They read his face aright 
at once ; and the slight cloud there had been 
on it — brought there, I was sorry to know, by 
my unsatisfactory reception of Donald — cleared 
off very quickly. 

“Have you had any cakes?” said he, ad- 
dressing the children. 

“Oh yes, ever such a lot! 7iac? jam puffs!” 
answered several young voices in chorus. Grand- 
father’s eye lighted on little Jane, who had re- 
sumed her place on the hassock, and was again 
holding my hand, and leaning her cheek against 
it, as she looked thoughtfully at the fire. 

“And, let me see, what’s your name, you 
Leprechaun ?” said grandfather. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


49 


J anc did not move, but she Avithdrew her gaze 
from the fire, and fixed it on his face, as she 
answered, with her usual composure and de- 
liberation, “Dane Aweesle Arkyight.” 

“ Jane what? What does she say her name 
is?” 

“ Jane Louisa Arkwright,” explained Lizzie. 

Jane nodded her head Avith grave dignity, as 
of an Eastern potentate Avho should sanction the 
translation of his Avords by an interpreter into 
some “ barbarian” speech. 

“What’s a Lepre — that thing that you 
called Jane?” asked Martha. Martha was of 
an inquiring turn of mind. Grandfather ex- 
plained that Leprechaun was an Irish word for 
an odd old-fashioned kind of sprite ; and that 
led to a general dissertation on fairies : and 
that led to a delicately hinted request that 
grandfather Avould oblige the company Avith 
“a story;” and he gave them “Jack the Gi- 
ant-Killer” in fine style. Teddy confessed 
frankly that he thought grandfather’s story far 
superior to mine ; and, indeed, all the children 
enjoyed it far more than mine, naturally. Don- 
ald, Avhen I remarked this, laughingly said, 
“ Yes ; and I think that the reason is that your 
story took hold of you, instead of your taking 
hold of it ; and, consequently, it carried you a 
little out of the reach of your small audience.” 

I mustered courage to ask him Avhat I had 
been longing to knoAA", namely, how much of 
my nonsense he had been a listener to ? 

“I arriA'ed about the time of the appearance 
of Mesdames Shine and ShadoAv,” said he, in 
the same sort of shy, Ioav tone I had spoken 
in, and Avithout turning his eyes toward me. 
“But I don’t think your story Avas nonsense.” 

The little ArkAvrights Avere regaled before 
their departure in the fly with elder-wine, Avhich 
had a great deal of sugar and spice in it, and 
was much relished. By the time it Avas served 
— it being then the rakishly late hour of half past 
eight — poor Mary was very drowsy, and even 
Martha and Teddy shoAved symptoms of sleep- 
iness, Avhich, it is needless to say, they denied 
and struggled against Avith a heroism worthy 
of a better cause. But little Jane’s bright gray 
eyes were as wide open as ever when she was 
Avrapped up and carried down the garden path to 
the fly. It Avas a moonlight night, and as I 
stood at the glass door of the dining-room, 
AA^atching the children depart, I saw little Jane’s 
fair face above grandfather’s shoulder; he car- 
ried her to the coach himself, the bright eyes 
turned unwinkingly toward the sky, and the 
clear moonbeams shining in them with solemn 
serenity. 

Soon afterward Mrs. Abram AvithdreAV, being 
tired, she said. I never shall forget the hope- 
less perplexity on her countenance Avhen she 
shook hands Avith Donald and bade him good- 
night. She Avas so undecided what to call him, 
and hesitated so vaguely up to the very instant 
of opening her mouth, betAveen “ love” (her fa- 
vorite Avord), and “ Donald, ’’and “ Mr. Ayrlie,” 
that she finally conferred on him, as he rose to 
P 


open the door for her exit, a compound appel- 
lation, which sounded, I thought, quite grand 
and Andalusian — namely, “Don Loveairy.” 

I slipped aAvay not very long after Mrs. 
Abram, and left grandfather and Donald chat- 
ting by the fire. As I was going up stairs to 
my room I was waylaid by Keturah. She was 
full of delight at Donald’s arrival. And wasn’t 
he a fine lad? she said. And wouldn’t it be a 
fine thing for the master to have a bright young 
felloAv like that about him ? And wouldn’t all 
the house be pleasanter and more cheerful than 
it had been for many a day ? I said I hoped 
so — and I dared to say so — and that it was very 
likely. But I suppose my response was not 
quite cordial enough to be in tune Avith Ketu- 
rah’s mood, for she looked piercingly at me from 
under her overhanging black brows, and said, 
more sharply, “And you knoAv, Miss Anne, it’s 
like to be a comfort to your grandfather to have 
a young creature about him, and a sort of a bit 
of sunshine to all on us as Ave grow older.” 

“Why, Keturah,” said I, smiling, and laying 
my hand on her shoulder — for, though I Avas a 
little vexed, I did not intend to let her either 
snub me into silence or sting me into anger — 
“am I never to come to Mortlands any more? 
or am I not to be reckoned among ‘young creat- 
ures ?’ ” 

“ Oh, you. Miss Anne !” said the old serA’ant, 
sloAvly. ‘ ‘ Why, you Avill be making neAV friends 
or neAV ties, and forgetting all about us, some 
day, I reckon. It’s nat’ral, I suppose. But 
you knoAV you haven't been to Mortlands so often 
lately but what we haA^e had time to miss you ; 
and Ave hear of visitors at Water-Eardley — smart 
gentlemen, with smart uniforms ; and what 
should smart gentlemen go there for but pretty 
young ladies ?” 

“You reckon that I shall be forgetting all 
about you? Keturah, I reckon that you’re a 
goose !” 

“ Aha, child, mebbe you’re out in your reck- 
oning then !” returned Keturah, grimly enough. 
But the next instant that smile, of which I have 
spoken as being so singularly SAveet and attract- 
ive, stole over her face, and she kissed me, and 
bade me “ good-night” in her usual manner. 

I thought, as I sat brushing my hair that 
night, that if I had been disposed to be jealous 
of my place in grandfather’s regard, I might 
have had some excuse for the feeling, in the 
fuss they all seemed determined to make about 
Donald. But I was not disposed to be jealous. 
I said to myself that, after all, Keturah was 
right in deeming it a good thing for my grand- 
father to have the new occupation and interest 
in life Avhich the young man’s presence would 
atford. Donald Ayrlie was a link between the 
past and the present. His name was connect- 
ed in grandfather's mind with all sorts of youth- 
ful reminiscences ; and I was very glad to think 
of his remaining many years at Mortlands. It 
Avould be comforting to those who loved my 
grandfather to knoAV that he would have such a 
staff and companion at hand Avhen he should 


r>o 


ANNE FURNESS. 


grow very old. And — though Keturah was 
crabbed, and talked nonsense sometimes when 
she was cross — still it might be that I should not 
be able to be always within call of Mortlands ; 
so many changes happened in life. There was 
an elder daughter of Sir Peter Bunny, whom I 
had never seen, only heard of ; she had gone to 
India, and would probably not revisit her old 
home for years and years. Her husband was 
an officer in the army, like — Donald’s father. 

Almost as plainly as though the words had 
been uttered from without instead of within, I 
seemed to hear a voice saying, “ Anne, Anne, 
you are not in earnest ! You are trifling and 
playing at some feeling that has no living root in 
your heart I ” 

I did not question this importunate voice for 
an explanation of its sibylline utterance ; but I 
did question myself as to whether I were in 
earnest or not, and as to whether it were true 
that I was “ playing at a feeling” which had no 
living root in my heart. Was I drifting idly 
along under the guidance of a mere fancy ? en- 
joying a make-believe sentiment, just as I had 
enjoyed enacting make-believe fairies and prin- 
cesses and Arctic voyagers and Man Friday, 
when I was a child ? 

I fell fast asleep in the little bed that had held 
me so many a night in peace and safety, before 
having arrived at a final answer to any one 
question of my self-imposed catechism. . 

o— — 

CHAPTER XVI. 

I HAD an opportunity of obseiwing Donald 
better the next morning, as he and grand- 
father and I strolled round the garden together 
after breakfast, and of comparing his present 
appearance with my half-effaced remembrance 
of him as a boy. 

Donald retained the grave candor of his ex- 
pression, and a mixture of frankness and shy- 
ness in his smile, and in a certain trick of the 
eyebrows, which had made his somewhat home- 
ly face attractive when he was a child. But 
there were thought and purpose on his forehead 
now, and reflective earnestness in his eyes, that 
had come with ripening years. And although 
his dress was plain almost to rudeness, and his 
gait careless, and his gestures abrupt, he was 
unmistakably a gentleman. I use the word in 
no high-flown sense of innate honesty and no- 
bility. I simply mean to express that most 
subtile and indefinable combination of qualities 
(consisting, in Donald’s case, neither in ele- 
gance of attire, nor suavity of demeanor, nor 
polish of language) which Englishmen recog- 
’ nize as conventionally constituting a gentleman. 
And in saying that Donald was unmistakably 
a gentleman, I should limit my assertion some- 
what. For example, it crossed my mind as we 
were pacing the moss-grown garden paths, that 
Sam Cudberry, if called on to recognize Donald 
as a gentleman, would probably decline to do 


so, on the ground of his rough gray coat and 
thick boots. 

To grandfather’s great delight, we found that 
Donald had retained a very vivid recollection 
of the garden and the shrubbery, and of all the 
“ moving accidents by flood and field” which 
we had enacted there. It all looked smaller to 
him, of course, than he had pictured it in his 
mind, he said. But, with that exception, the 
garden of Mortlands was precisely what he had 
remembered and expected. 

When our stroll was finished, grandfather 
withdrew to his study, taking Donald with him, 
as they had various matters to discuss together, 
and I said “ good-by” to both of them, for I was 
to return to Water-Eardley in good time. 

“ I’m sorry you must run away, little Nan- 
cy,” said my grandfather. 

“I promised.” 

“To be sure, to be sure! I don’t mean to 
urge you to break a promise. Give my love to 
your dear mother, and tell her that Donald 
Ayrlie means to come over very soon, and pay 
his respects to her. It will be a nice walk for 
him some fine, crisp morning; so look for him 
early.” 

“Oh, grandfather!” I exclaimed, detaining 
him by the arm as he was about to turn away, 
“I did not give you the fashionable intelli- 
gence!” 

“ Now, little Nancy, this is terrible ! Not to 
give me the fashionable intelligence, when you 
know it is the pabulum — that sounds very fine, 
I think ; quite like a newspaper — the pabulum 
of my existence !” 

“Yes, I know,” I returned, laughing at his 
solemn face. “And, therefore, lest you should 
be starved outright, I hasten to inform you that 
there is to be a ball at Woolling very shortly. 
What do you think of that?" 

He looked as if he thought more of it than I 
had expected, for his face expressed genuine 
surprise. 

“ A ball at Woolling ? At the Cudberrys’ ? 
What on earth for ?” 

“ What for ? Why, grandfather, even an un- 
fashionable intelligence understands that a ball 
is for dancing !” 

“Oh, ay, ay! And are you going to this 
ball?” ■ 

“I suppose so. But we are not asked 
yet.” 

“How did you hear of it?” asked grandfa- 
ther, quickly. 

“From Mr. Lacer. That gentleman — an of- 
ficer — a friend of father’s. We met him on 
the race-course.” 

“I have heard of him.” 

“Have you?” 

“Yes. Good-by, my child. God bless thee ! ” 

Grandfather kissed my forehead tenderly, and 
laid his hand upon my head. There was some- 
thing which I could not quite define to myself 
in his face — a shade of sadness, and an uneasy 
questioning look. I thought of it several times 
on my way home ; but I thought of so many 


ANNE FUliNESS. 


51 


other things too, that they finally put that look 
of grandfather’s out of my head. 

I reached home at such an early hour that 
there was time for a drive with mother before 
dinner. My father was not out of his bed. 
He had taken to be quite a sluggard, seldom 
rising before eleven or twelve o’clock. And 
this, I knew, was a great grief to my mother. 
But she had long since found remonstrances 
and petitions unavailing to induce him to return 
to his former active habits. At first, indeed, 
he would profess penitence, and promise amend- 
ment. Then he took to laughing at mother in 
a kind of superior manner, asking her if she sup- 
posed him to be a little boy in need of a nursery- 
maid to keep him in order. Finally, he had 
become irritable on the subject, and curtly de- 
sired her to hold her tongue, and not bother him. 

“ I am so glad you have come home early, 
dear Anne,” said my mother, “for I was wish- 
ing to have you as a companion in my drive. I 
am going to Woolling. We have received an 
invitation to the ball there. It arrived yester- 
day evening. And, as it is a long time since I 
have paid Mrs. Cudberry a visit, your father 
said I had better go and take our answer in 
person. Your father says we must accept the 
invitation. For my part, I do not expect much 
gratification from this ball. But I hope you 
may enjov it, child. Though, from the usual 
behavior of the girls to you, I almost fear you 
may meet with something disagreeable.” 

“I don’t care a straw for any thing ‘ the girls’ 
can say or do, mother. So on that score you 
may be quite easy,” I made answer, with quite 
unnecessary energy. Mother sighed softly as 
she said, “But don’t quarrel with them, Anne, 
if you can possibly avoid it. Remember, child, 
they are your dear father’s kinsfolk !” 

Boor mother ! it is touching to look back and 
see how, as my father lost ground in the esteem 
of those around him, and as his faults grew to 
such proportions as made it impossible even for 
her to ignore them, she replaced her old proud 
and joyful worship of him by a tender pity ; how 
she encompassed him with a yearning fondness, 
and would unhesitatingly have shielded him 
with the soft, faithful breast against any breath 
of blame or shaft of unkindness. She was del- 
icately fearful of resenting even the coarse in- 
solence with which it frequently pleased the 
Cudberrys to treat her, lest it might appear that 
she was less friendly than formerly with “her 
dear George’s cousins.” 

On our way to Woolling I gave her an ac- 
count of my grand entertainment to the little 
Arkwrights, and I informed her of Donald’s 
arrival. She was much pleased to hear of the 
latter, and said she hoped he would prove an 
agreeable and useful companion to her dear fa- 
ther. Mother had taken a great fancy to Don- 
ald in his childish days, and made me describe 
him to her as he was now, chatting of him with 
great .interest. Of his personal appearance I 
found no difficulty in giving a picture. It cer- 
tainly was not a flattering one. I described 


him as a blue-eyed, light-haired young man, 
with plain features, and a figure rather too broad 
for his height, clothed in a rough coat, and with 
sun-burnt hands, which looked as if they had 
been unacquainted with gloves from the cradle. 
But I did him the justice to add that he would 
certainly be recognized by gentlefolks as a gen- 
tleman notwithstanding. For the rest, he was 
very silent and very shy — or, it might be, very 
stupid. Though, on mother’s point-blank ques- 
tioning me as to whether I thought him stupid, 

I was obliged to declare that, so far as my ob- 
servation had enabled me to judge, he appeared 
sensible enough. 

We were in the midst of our talk when we 
arrived at Woolling, and the chaise turned from 
the village up a lane that led to Mr. Cudberry’s 
house. 

I have never seen so altogether incongruous a 
house. It would have been almost as difficult 
to assign the proper rank to it as to its owners 
on a first view. It had neither the dignity of 
decayed gentility nor the coziness of prosper- 
ous vulgarity, although there were traits of both 
one and the other about the building. 

The house had no distinctive name. On the 
rare occasions when Uncle Cudberry received 
a letter it was addressed to Mr. Cudberry, 
Woolling; and it duly reached its destination. 

Uncle Cudberry possessed a considerable 
number of acres, which he farmed himself. 
He was said to grow the best wheat for miles 
round, and was proud of that reputation. The 
farm came up close around the dwelling. There 
was only a small strip of garden dividing it in 
front from the fields. At the back there was 
a large farm-yard, with barns, and cart-sheds, 
and pig-sties, bounded by an ocean of turnip 
fields. The approach to the house was by a 
road which, in truth, deserved no higher title 
than that of a cart-track. It ran through the 
open fields, and was intersected by no fewer 
than seven five -barred gates. These gates 
were always fastened, to prevent the cattle 
from straying, and whosoever passed through 
them was admonished, under pain of divers 
penalties, to shut them again carefully. Very 
few things excited so much emotion in Uncle 
Cudberry’s usually phlegmatic nature as the 
finding a gate left open or imperfectly secured.' 
There were certain seasons when the gates 
were fastened with huge padlocks ; and then 
any adventurous visitor, who was not easily 
balked by difficulties, might gain access to 
the house by climbing over sundry stiles of in- 
geniously inconvenient construction ; or he 
might, if he were a bold equestrian, leap his 
horse over seven five-barred gates in succes- 
sion. But I never heard of any one attempt- 
ing this latter exploit. If neither alternative 
suited him, he might simply stay away. And 
this, indeed, was the course which I think rec- 
ommended itself most strongly to Mr. Cud- 
berry. He would triumphantly bring forward 
this liberty of staying away as a conclusive 
argument on his side whenever his daughters 


52 


ANNE FURNESS. 


urged him to have a new road made from the 
village of Woolling to the house. 

“Why, lass,” he would say, speaking very 
deliberately, “them as can’t get over a stile 
are but lame dogs.” 

“ That’s all very well, papa,” Tilly would an- 
swer, sharply; “ but how ai'e people to scram- 
ble about like monkeys ? You know that sec- 
ond stile beyond the five-acre field is awful. 
And you’ve never had it mended ! And no- 
body would like to try getting over it that had 
any decent clothes on ; for corduroy is the only 
thing to stand that stile, and even that not al- 
ways.” 

“ Well, now, look here. Miss Cudberry ; do 
I ask ’em to come? No. Very well, let ’em 
stay away, then ! That’s fair. What have you 
got to say against that ?” 

And so the new road was never made. The 
cart-track came up to the edge of the garden ; 
the garden was fenced off from the fields by a 
wire railing ; there was a duck-pond a little to 
the right of the road on the field side of the 
wire fence, and a Aveeping-willow drooped over 
it. This willow was the only tree visible from 
the front of the house, except some woods on 
the horizon, so that the outlook over the flat, 
well-cultivated, ugly farm was rather dreary. 
At the back of the house, beyond the farm- 
yard, there were bits of pretty rural scenery ; 
deep winding lanes, half hidden by tangled 
hedgerows, and green uplands, and the tow- 
ers of a noble mansion rising above the trees 
in a neighboring park, and the bright, change- 
ful river. No part of the house was of a later 
date than the middle of the eighteenth centu- 
ry; some of it was at least a hundred and fifty 
years older. The ancient portions of the build- 
ing were the nobler. They showed traces of 
wealth, and had been evidently intended for the 
habitation of gentlefolks. There was a large 
stone hall, surrounded by carved oaken settles, 
on the ground-floor ; there was a long low room 
with mullioned windows, and a ceiling of carved 
oak like the settles in the hall, and a noble 
mantel-piece of the same wood, which was look- 
ed on by judges of the art as a remarkably fine 
specimen of carving. Up stairs there were two 
or three spacious apartments, with their floors 
all awry, and queer closets, and a long ram- 
bling passage that led nowhere, and even a 
trap-door, giving access to a hiding-place in 
the thickness of the ancient masonry, wherein 
tradition said a Romish priest, who acted as a 
political agent from abroad, had been conceal- 
ed in the days of Cavalier and Roundhead. 
For the Cudberrys of that time had been 
stanch Royalists, although I never heard that 
they or any one belonging to them endured 
much trouble from persecution. Unless, in- 
deed, it were the Romish priest, who must have 
felt very uncomfortable, if he ever really did stow 
himself away in that stuify little hiding-place. 

The more modern part of the house was very 
ugly, and was tacked on to the other in such 
fashion as in a great measure to destroy the 


picturesqueness of its elder neighbor. The 
new edifice was of brick, the old one of stone. 
The former had all the peculiarities which dis- 
tinguish buildings of the same period, and it 
is needless to obseiwe that these peculiarities 
are not beautiful. It all looked pinched and 
flat and mean. But this part of the house 
alone was inhabited by the family. The fine 
old stone hall was used as a lumber-room, and 
I have seen it filled up with wheat sacks, speci- 
mens of mangel-wurzel, disused harness, gig- 
whips, store-apples, garden-tools, an old hen- 
coop, a patent plow, and a heap of other hetero- 
geneous objects. The long low room with the 
carved mantel-piece was empty and deserted, 
and its flagged floor, cracked and weather- 
stained, afforded a varied and interesting prom- 
enade for many successive broods of chickens, 
who were occasionally turned in there to keep 
them out of harm’s way. The rooms above 
were occupied by servants, and were very bare, 
very dreary, and very draughty; for the wind 
whistled through them at night as though that 
part of the mansion were a huge Pan’s pipe on 
which Boreas performed ghostly strains in a 
minor key. 

There was nothing ghostly about the newer 
part of Mr. Cudberry’s house. It was fur- 
nished, as to the articles bought within the last 
ten or twelve years, with a combination of 
cheapness and gaudiness ; as to the older, in- 
herited furniture, with attenuated chairs, and 
spindle-legged tables, and chilly horse-hair so- 
fas, and horrible round mirrors that made one 
feel sea-sick to look at them, and depressing 
specimens of worsted embroidery which might 
have been worked in dust and ashes for all the 
color that was left on their faded surfaces. 

Uncle Cudberry was, as his family phrased 
it, “a little close.” In other words, he was 
extremely stingy and avaricious, except as re- 
garded any expenditure which could conduce 
to his own immediate and personal gratifica- 
tion. And as that which gratified him was far 
from being identical with that which gratified 
his family, there arose many contests between 
the young people and the mother on the one 
side, and Mr. Cudberry solus on the other. It 
was hopeless to think of vanquishing him in 
open fight, but he was sometimes outwitted — 
or at least his adversaries thought so. I am 
inclined to doubt this myself. I believe Uncle 
Cudberry’s tactics to have been conducted on 
one simple and invariable principle ; namely, to 
compel his wife and children to undergo the 
greatest amount of trouble and vexation and 
weariness of spirit which he found it possible 
to inflict, in order to obtain from him the most 
trifling concessions. He made them beg and 
pray and manoeuvre for the purchase even of 
common objects of household use which were 
as desirable for himself as for them, thinking, 
in his astuteness, that if they expended so much 
powder and shot on necessaries, they would 
have the less ammunition wherewith to fight 
for luxuries. 


ANNE rUKNESS. 


53 


It has taken me a longer time to write all 
this than it took for the chaise to drive along 
the cart-track, pass through the gates (happily 
iinpadlocked), and draw np at the wicket in 
the v/ire fence of the garden. Mother and I 
alighted, crossed the bright and neat, though 
formal garden, and were admitted into the 
house by Daniel of the ruddy locks, whom I 
judged to have not long come in from agricul- 
tural pursuits, inasmuch as he carried several 
pounds weight of rich loamy soil on his shoes, 
and bore traces of the same on his trowsers 
and on his hands, and even on his forehead, 
where there was a streak of mud, apparently 
left there by the application of his own finger. 

Daniel grinned until his mouth represented 
the segment of a circle, and bade us walk into 
the parlor, as we “ knowed the road excusing 
himself from coming beyond the flagged pas- 
sage, on the ground that he was “ too mucky,” 
and that Miss Cudberry would “jaw” him if he 
spoiled the new carpet. 

We assured Daniel that it was quite unnec- 
essary to expose himself to the mysterious perils 
of being “jawed” by Miss Cudberry on our ac- 
count, and so entered Aunt Cudberry’s sitting- 
room unannounced. 



CHAPT^ XVII. ' 

I SAW the other day some gutta-percha dolls, 
whose faces could be squeezed, by the applica- 
tion of a thumb and finger, into the most com- 
ical grimaces. The countenances of those dolls 
reminded me of Aunt Cudberry. Her face had 
a sort of India rubber flexibility. The lines in 
it seemed to be not so much wrinkles as creases, 
which might give place to other and quite dif- 
ferent creases when next she moved her face. 
Her very nose appeared to have no fixed and 
permanent outline. And yet you would scarce- 
ly have called Aunt Cudberry’s an expressive 
physiognomy, for it was impossible to discover 
any connection between its contortions and the 
subject of her discourse. She would frown 
portentously in relating the pleasantest matter ; 
or widen her mouth, into what on another face 
would have been a smile, at the moment she 
was uttering the most wobegone complaints. 
She wore a front of brown curls, which was al- 
ways a little awry. And she wore a large cap, 
with bows of satin ribbon stuck all over it ; and 
the cap, too, was a little awry. So was her 
collar ; so was her apron. She was not untidy ; 
but she had an air of general lopsidedness. 
The odd thing to me, in Aunt Cudberry’s ap- 
pearance, was a grotesque resemblance she bore 
to my father. She was his mother’s sister, and 
there was a decided family likeness between 
her and her handsome nephew, although it 
would have been difficult to define wherein it 
consisted. 

She was sewing in the sitting-room when Ave 
entered it, and Tilly and Clemmy were prac- 
ticing a duet at the piano-forte. I always had 


a sense of inappropriaieness in seeing them play 
the piano. It appeared to be the last thing in 
the world they ought to have been doing. I 
was no musician, and therefore did not presume 
to be critical on their performances. But mu- 
sic seemed to me as unhecominy to Tilly Cud- 
berry as a white satin slipper or a wreath of 
roses Avould have been to ]\Irs. Abram ! 

“Why, now, Mrs. George !” exclaimed Aunt 
Cudberry, putting doAvn her Avork and rising 
to receive my mother. She spoke very loud. 
If she had not done so, I think she could not 
possibly have attracted her daughters’ atten- 
tion, for they Avere playing very vigorously. 
At their mother’s exclamation, they ceased 
their performance, Avith a final chord which 
reminded me of the crashing fall of a tea-tray 
laden Avith cups and saucers. I really think 
there must have been some Avrong notes in it. 
Nobody could haA'e intended that ear-splitting 
dissonance ! 

“And hoAv are you, my dear? And Anne, 
too ! Dear me ! Poor things ! Sit doAvn noAV, 
do ! And hoAV is George ? Po-o-or George !” 

Aunt Cudberry said all this in a lamentable 
tone of voice. There Avas no special reason 
for lamentation, but that was “her Avay,” and 
meant nothing. My mother greeted them all 
with her usual gentle kindness, and the young 
ladies left the piano, and, seating themseh'es 
near us, plunged into an animated conversa- 
tion. 

“ Just imagine, Anne,” screamed Tilly, 
“your Avalking in Avithout any body to show 
you the Avay ! You knoAv if it had been stran- 
gers, it Avould have been all the same to Dan- 
iel. If pa Avould only have a man-servant Avith 
a little style about him ! But pa is so obstinate. 
He AA'Ouldn’t care if we had a bullock to Avait at 
table!” 

“ I scarcely think Uncle Cudberry Avould like 
that,” said I, laughing. 

“ Oh yes, he would. That’s just exactly 
Avhat he would like,” retorted Tilly, Avith the 
most A^ehement earnestness. “ That’s Mr. Cud- 
berry, of Woolling, all over. There you have 
him ! If it Avasn’t for us and ma there would 
be no style at all about the place. Not a tinge 
of it.” 

“Well, Anne, are you coming to our ball?” 
asked Clementina. 

“ Yes, I believe so. Mother came to bring 
the ansAver in person, instead of Avriting.” 

“Weren’t you surprised to hear of it?” said 
Clemmy. But before I could reply Tilly burst 
in, “Why should she be surprised! What is 
there astonishing in our giving a ball, pray ? 
But that’s so like you, Clementina. I suppose 
Anne Furness expected AV'e should do a little 
like the rest of the world some day, and move a 
little Avith the times ! We’ve been moped long 
enough, Clementina, I should think. Anne Fur- 
ness is not quite a fool — not quite!" in a tone 
Avhich seemed to imply that I Avas as yet only 
on the border-land of idiocy. 

“ Hoav is Uncle Cudberry ? and Henny ? and 


54 


ANNE FURNESS. 


Sum ?” said I, desiring to change the conversa- 
tion. 

“ Oh, Henny and Sam are gone over to 
Brooktield. llenny wanted to make some pur- 
chases of her milliner. Sam, of course, will 
call on Mr. Lacer. You never knew such 
friends as Sam and Mr. Lacer have become. 
Quite chums !” 

“ Indeed !” 

“ Oh dear, yes ! Mr. Lacer finds Sam very 
agreeable — most agreeable !” 

“Oh!” 

“Why, yes, you may suppose so, when you 
think of what Brookfield is. The commonest 
of the common.” 

1 reflected that if being uncommon were a 
sine, qua non for gaining Mr. Lacer’s good opin- 
ion, Sam Cudberry, as far as my limited ex- 
perience of the world went, certainly fulfllled 
that condition. 

“ Isn’t Mr. Lacer an elegant creature ?” said 
Aunt Cudberry, turning to me at this point. 

“ I — I — don’t know. Yes, I think he is well- 
mannered.” 

“Oh, my dear, as to manners, he’s perfect. 
Poor tiling ! And so amusing I But I must 
scud and tell Mr, Cudberry that you’re here. 
Mrs. George is a great favorite of Mr. Cud- 
berry’s.” 

“ Oh, ma!” shrieked Tilly, and fell into a fit 
of laughter, the cause whereof was and is en- 
tirely mysterious to me. But this was no new 
thing. So many of the Cudberry sayings and 
doings w'ere so inscrutable to my apprehension 
that I have sometimes thought my communica- 
tions with that family resembled the intercourse 
of a European with some secluded tribe of In- 
dians. The most I could do was to guess at 
their meaning. Very often, no doubt, I guess- 
ed wrongly, from want of the necessary insight 
into their point of view. 

Tilly’s whoops of laughter had not died away 
when Mr. Cudberry came into the sitting-room. 

He was a thin, dark-eyed, bald old man, "who 
stooped a good deal in his gait. He w’ore a suit 
of coarse drab-colored cloth, a red worsted scarf 
round his throat, and leather leggings buttoned 
tightly over his lean limbs. His face was as 
immovable as his wife’s w’as the reverse. His 
eyes sometimes sparkled when he was angry ; 
but, beyond the necessary motion of the mus- 
cles of his mouth when he spoke, I do not think 
I ever saw any other indication in his counte- 
nance that it was made of flesh and blood in- 
stead of Avood. He spoke in a growling tone, 
very slowly, very deliberately, and as though he 
were haunted by a constant suspicion that his 
interlocutors wanted to catch him, to entangle 
him, to commit him to some rash statement, or, 
in short, to get the better of him in one Avay or 
another. 

“Your sarvant, Mrs. Furness,” said Uncle 
Cudberry, shaking hands with my mother. 
“Yours, Miss Anne. You grow a fine young 
lass. Miss Anne. Tall and straight. Yes. 
That’s the truth. No mistake about it.” 


“ Oh, cried his daughters in chorus. 

“Hey? What’s Avrong Avith you, Miss Cud- 
berry?” 

“ Noav, pa ! Just as if you didn’t knoAV that 
nobody says ‘‘sarvant.^ I do Avonder that you 
like to be so vulgar.. Why don’t you polish 
yourself up a bit, pa?” cried Tilly, Avith ter- 
rific playfulness. I use the Avord “ terrific” ad- 
visedly, for Avhen it pleased Tilly to be sportive, 
and to indulge in banter, her voice rose into a 
shriek, of Avhich I despair of conveying an idea. 

“ Polish ! I’m polished enough,” replied Un- 
cle Cudberry, Avith great deliberation. “Oh 
yes ; as to that. I'm plenty polished enough. 
It don’t take much polish, as I knoAv of, to look 
after the crops. And you can ask any man, 
Avoman, or child about the place if they think 
it ’ud be easy to do the master. I reckon they 
know lAvasn’t born yesterday, Miss Cudberr}".” 

Strange and incredible as it appeared to me, 
I had often been assured by my father that 
Mr. Cudberry had in his youth received as 
good an education as Avas usual Avith gentlemen 
of his day — a somewhat better education, in- 
deed, than the majority of country squires of 
his standing. He had been in London, and 
had even been noted there as a spendthrift. 
But on coming rather unexpectedly into the 
property at Woolling (for he Avas not the direct 
heir, but inherited on the death of a cousin), a 
complete metamorphosis took place in his man- 
ners and mode of life. The love of money 
greAv upon him year by year. He lived in al- 
most absolute retirement, associating chiefly 
AAuth mere rustic boors. He adopted their 
habits and their language. But I used some- 
times to fancy that he purposely exaggerated 
his broad, vulgar mode of speaking in order to 
mortify his daughters and mock at their aspira- 
tions after finery. And yet, with queer in- 
consistency, he was proud of them, and shared 
their conviction *that the Cudberrys of Wool- 
ling Avere people of very great importance and 
consideration. It was Avith some idea, I im- 
agine, of teasing Tilly in particular that Uncle 
Cudberry made a point of complimenting and 
praising me Avhenever he saAv me. Especially 
he would remark on my height, as contrasted 
Avith his daughters’ small stature. There Avas 
only one person to Avhom I ever saw Uncle 
Cudberry show a glimmering of courtesy, and 
that person Avas my mother. Occasionally in 
his manner tOAvard her might be discerned 
some dim traces of the gentleman he had once 
been. And notAvithstanding Tilly’s peals of 
derisive laughter, I believe Aunt Cudberry was 
right when she said that “Mrs. George” Avas a 
great favorite Avith her husband. 

Before our visit came to an end Daniel en- 
tered the room, bearing a tray with two decant- 
ers on it, a piece of cake, and several wine- 
glasses. The decanters contained, I kncAv, 
coAvslip and raisin Avinc, respectively. No 
more expensive vintage Avas ever given to vis- 
itors to Woolling in the daytime. Of course 
the ceremony of ofieringAvine might have been 


ANNE FURNESS. 


omitted altogether ; but this would have been 
a departure from a custom which Aunt Cud- 
berry looked upon as quite indispensable in a 
genteel household. 

Daniel had removed in some way a portion 
of the loam from his trowsers. He had changed 
his boots, and put on a black coat, which I rec- 
ognized from its cut as having belonged to Sam 
Cudberry, and which was so much too narrow 
for Daniel’s broad, bowed shoulders, that he 
looked as if he were pinioned in it. The smudge 
of mud remained conspicuously on his fore- 
head ; but he grinned round at us, complacent- 
ly unconscious of, or philosophically indifferent 
to, this drawback to his personal appearance. 

“ White wine or red, Anne ?” said Aunt Cud- 
berry, when it came to my turn to be helped. 

“Cow — ” I began, inadvertently, but I 
checked myself, and answered, “ white, please. 
Aunt Cudberry.” It was a point of honor at 
Woolling not to call the SAveet home-made 
liquor by its real name. “White or red” 
might equally apply to port and sherry, and Aunt 
Cudberry found some comfort in the ambiguity 
of the phrase, although we all kneAv perfectly 
well what the wine Avas, and she kncAv that we 
knew it. 

“ Has George been having any dealings Avith 
old Green the coach-maker, do ye knoAV, Mrs. 
Furness?” asked Mr. Cudberry, abruptly, of 
my mother. 

“ Dealings ? Mr. Green sold him a pony- 
chaise. And Mr. Green’s grandson came to 
Water-Eardley to see about repairing it. I 
know of no other dealings that George has had 
with him.” 

I felt guiltily conscious, and my face burned 
as I listened. Mother did not know then of 
the money transactions I had heard discussed 
betAveen Mat Kitchen and my father. 

“ Ah, AA'ell, that’s better than I thought.” 

“ Why ? What do you mean ?” 

Mother turned A'ery pale as she put the ques- 
tion, and looked imploringly into Mr. Cud- 
berry’s hard face. 

“What I mean’s neither here nor there. 
But don’t you distress yourself, Mrs. Furness. 
Old Green has the name of being hard and 
sharp. He’s a cunning man, and knows hoAv 
to put tAvo and tAvo together and make five of 
’em ’stead o’ four. But on market-days in 
Horsingham I sometimes hear a bit of gossip. 
And they say that the young chap, this Mat 
Kitchen, is quite as sharp and tAvice as hard 
as his grandfather, and that he’s getting all 
the old man’s private business into his own 
hands.” 

“What business?” asked my mother, inno- 
cently. “ Has he any other business besides 
coach-making ?” 

“Money-lending,” replied Mr. Cudberry, 
nodding his head once emphatically. “ And 
you just tell George to steer clear of the family 
party. I haven’t brought my own pigs to such 
a bad market, but what I’A^e a right to offer my 
Avife’s nephcAV a bit of advice. Not,” he add- 


55 

ed, touching my mother’s sleeA^e twice or thrice 
with the back of his forefinger — quite an ani- 
mated gesture for him! — “not as I’a'o any 
thing but advice to offer him, you understand !” 

My mother Avould not for the world have 
shoAvn any uneasiness before the Cudberrys 
Avhich might have led them to reflect upon or 
in any way blame her husband. But she Avas 
very thoughtful and silent as we Avere driving 
home again. And after a long meditation, she 
said to me, “ Anne, I am very glad, after all, 
that your grandfather— and my husband, for it 
was quite as much George’s doing as your 
grandfather’s, you must ahvays remember that, 
child ! — I am glad, I say, that they insisted on 
my little fortune being settled on me and my 
children. It Avill be at least a proAusion for 
you, in case — One never knoAvs Avhat may 
happen ! ” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The ball at Woolling was to take place in a 
fortnight from the day on Avhich we paid our 
visit to Aunt Cudberry. During this interval 
Ave saw Mr. Lacer rather frequently. My fa- 
ther ahvays made him Avelcome, and appeared 
to have taken a quite extraordinary fancy to 
him. Mother, on the whole, was pleased that 
it should be so ; for Mr. Lacer had made great 
progress in her good graces also, and, indeed, 
had become more intimate with the whole fam- 
ily than the length of our acquaintance Avith him 
Avould have seemed to Avarrant. But, as he 
said, friendship can not be measured by time ; 
and several circumstances concurred to give him 
an almost confidential footing among us. The 
first of these circumstances, hoAvever, Avas one 
Avhich might have produced a quite contrary 
effect. 

I have mentioned FloAver’s propensity to 
drinking. He ahvays contrived to do his sta- 
ble-work to my father’s satisfaction, but in the 
evening among his felloAv-servants he indulged 
himself in drinking and talking until, they said, 
he became almost unendurable. Sometimes 
one or tAvo of the farm people Avould drop in, on 
one excuse or another, to smoke and drink 
beer in the kitchen. It Avas a practice which 
my mother strongly disapproved of; but her 
authority Avas not sufficient to put a stop to it, 
and it Avas impossible to get my father to inter- 
fere in any domestic matters. He let things go 
as they Avould more and more every day. 

On one of these convivial occasions, being 
half stupefied with tobacco, and more than half 
drunk with beer. Flower proceeded to abuse 
the “master’s neAv friend, Mr. Lacer,” in no 
measured terms. The cook reported the con- 
versation to my mother, dAvelling minutely on 
every insolent and vituperative word Flower 
had used Avith that curious passion for the pain- 
ful, mental or physical, Avhich is so often found 
in persons of her class. One specific charge 
Avhich it pleased Flower to bring Avas, that Avhile 


56 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


he had been employed in the training stables of 
Lord B , Mr. Lacer had been caught play- 

ing the spy on those sacred precincts, for the 
purpose of sending information to London 
which would influence the betting on an ap- 
proaching race ; that he had been detected in 
trying to bribe a stable-helper to betray some 
of the secrets of his employer’s establishment ; 
that he had narrowly escaped being ducked un- 
der the pump by Lord B ’s express orders ; 

and that he (Mr. Lacer) had made the most 
strenuous efforts to hush up the whole affair, in- 
asmuch as it, together with sundry other trans- 
actions of a disgraceful nature, with which 
Flower professed to be acquainted, would, if 
published, have ruined him with his command- 
ing officer, and perhaps have obliged him to 
leave the army. 

This miserable kitchen scandal distressed my 
mother intensely. She repeated it to my father 
in my presence, and wdth a vehemence most 
unusual with her. 

My father was also a good deal disturbed by 
the matter, although less so — alas ! far less so ! 
— than he would have been some years ago. 
At first he had recourse to scolding mother for 
having given ear to “ servants’ tittle-tattle,” and 
was very lofty with her. But mother, to my 
great astonishment, and I think to his, main- 
tained her point with extraordinary firmness. 
She made him observe that this odious story 
was not mere vague calumny ; that it was a spe- 
cific and distinct charge, to which the servants 
and one or two farm laborers had been wit- 
nesses ; and that it could not and should not 
be passed over in silence. My father was sin- 
gularly averse to risking a quarrel with Flower. 
The man exercised a sort of fascination over 
him, as it seemed to us ; for my father, although 
a kind master, had too fiery a temper tamely to 
pass over misconduct in his servants in general. 
But the spell which Flower exercised was a 
very simple one, as we saw and acknowledged 
later. It derived its power from poor father’s 
besetting infatuation. He had been convinced 
by some means that Flower could give him val- 
uable information about race-horses, their train- 
ers, owners, and riders. Nay, he had once been 
heard advising my father to “go shares” in the 
purchase of a yearling colt out of some famous 
stable, which animal was “safe to win a pot of 
money, if properly placed, and the thing kept 
quiet.” Poor mother was in mortal terror of 
this yearling colt for a long time. But father 
laughed at her, and said, where was he to find 
money to buy race-horses ? And the matter 
finally dropped. 

To return, however, to Flower’s charge 
against Mr. Lacer. So firm was mother in in- 
sisting on the matter being sifted, and so evi- 
dent was it that she was entirely in the right, 
that my father, who had not lost all his old man- 
liness of heart and his hatred of that which was 
base and lying and cowardly, gave her his sol- 
emn assurance that he would tax Flower with 
having made this odious accusation, and would. 


if need were, discharge the fellow from his serv- 
ice at a minute’s warning. 

The following day Mr. Lacer called. It was 
in the afternoon, getting on toward dusk. Fa- 
ther was out. We had not seen him since our 
early dinner, and as he only rose that day in 
time to get down to the dining-room just as the 
dinner was being put on the table, and went out 
directly the meal w^as over, there had been lit- 
tle opportunity for conversation. Mr. Lacer 
walked into the small sitting-room, which mo- 
ther and I chiefly inhabited, and greeted us both 
as usual. My mother could not feign. There 
was a constraint in her manner which Mr. La- 
cer perceived at once, and to our great surprise 
he at once entered on the subject we had been 
discussing the previous evening. 

“I have been assisting at a rather stormy 
interview, Mrs. Furness,” said he. “I rode 
round by the stable-yard, and there I found 
your husband in a towering rage, and Flower 
in a very trembling and abject condition. And 
— to be frank — I know all about the head and 
front of his offending.” 

My mother turned a startled glance on him. 
Then she said, “ Do you know it, Mr. Lacer ? 
May I ask from whom ?” 

“ From Furness. He told me himself.” 

There was a silence. I thought Mr. Lacer 
had acted very wrongly in coming to say this to 
my mother. He should have waited. Under 
the circumstances, there was a great want of 
delicacy in his intrusion into her presence. 
But his next words altered ray judgment a 
little. 

“Mrs. Furness,” he said, speaking in some 
agitation, “I — I hope you’ll forgive me; I do 
indeed. But I could not endure to be under 
your displeasure. And what •an opinion you 
must have had of me if you believed — But 
I hope you have some confidence in me ! I 
hope you did not give me up on the words of a 
di'unken fool ! ” 

My mother trembled a good deal. Her cour- 
age and nerve had been tried too much of late. 
I crossed the room to her, and seating myself 
near her, took her hand. After a moment or 
so she answered, with a firm spirit, although 
with a quivering voice, “All this is very pain- 
ful to me, Mr. Lacer. You must know that it 
is so. I do not wish to think evil of any one. 
You have been very kind and friendly — but — ” 

“Dear Mrs. Furness,” he broke in, eagerly, 
“I ought to have told you at first! Flower 
penitently retracts every word. Of course he 
does! That seemed to me so much a matter 
of course that I did not think of beginning by 
saying so I ” 

Mother held out her hand, which Mr. Lacer 
took and raised to his lips. This bit of gal- 
lantry made her shyly Avithdraw her hand, and 
color like a girl. It was, indeed, rather too 
high-flown for the occasion ; but Mr. Lacer had 
an impulsive, almost boyish Avay Avith him at 
times, Avhich made one pardon a little exagger- 
ation of manner. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


57 


*‘IIow deeply I regret,” said mother, “and 
how deeply George will regret, that any friend 
of ours should have been exposed to such an 
offense from our servant ! What an infamous, 
dangerous creature!” 

“ I fear you have taken the matter to heart 
more than was needful, Mrs. Furness,” said 
Mr. Lacer. 

“It seems to me that that was hardly possi- 
ble,” said I. “To us it was no light thing 
either that an inmate of our household should 
be a vile calumniator, or that a person received 
on friendly terms by my father should be — what 
you must have been if Flower spoke truly.” 

I had not broken silence before ; but I was 
chafed by Mr. Lacer’s way of treating the affair. 

“ You speak rather severely. Miss Furness. 
Have I offended you ?” 

“You are not half angry enough with Flow- 
er,” I replied, bluntly. 

“ Anne !” exclaimed my mother, with gentle 
reproof. 

“ I was angry enough, I assure you, at first ; 
but really the thing was so absurd, so wild I 
And the man was drunk, quite drunk. He de- 
clares he has no recollection at all of what he 
said last night.” 

“Thank Heaven, this will rid us of him!” 
exclaimed my mother, with a slight gesture of 
her hand, as of one pushing aside a hateful 
object. 

“Rid you? Oh, I — perhaps I did wrong, 
but the fellow begged and prayed so for forgive- 
ness, and Furness seemed loth to part with him, 
and — I put in a word for him to induce his 
master to look over the offense this once, on 
the understanding that the very next time he 
is seen to be drunk he is turned off without 
wages or warning.” 

Mother fell back in her chair. ‘ ‘ Keep him ! ” 
she cried. “ My husband means to keep him ! 
Impossible !” 

“Do you so strongly object to the man, Mrs. 
Furness ? I had no idea — ” 

“ Most strongly do I object to him. I have 
reasons for doing so. I am not actuated by 
prejudice. He is a dangerous, dangerous man ! 
I would give any thing to see him fairly away 
from my house.” 

Upon this Mr. Lacer spoke more unreserved- 
ly than he had hitherto done about my father’s 
growing infatuation for betting. He had seen, 
he said, that it distressed my mother, and had 
seen it with sincere sympathy. As far as in 
him lay — of course, his poAver was very limited ; 
he was so much younger than my father, had 
no claim of old acquaintance, and so forth — 
he had tried to stand between my father and 
temptation of that sort. He thought, if he 
might venture to advise, that mother was wrong 
in her desire to get rid of Flower. The man 
was not pleasant, nor sober, nor honest in 
speech. But he had the rare honesty in a 
groom of not cheating in his stable. That was 
a great point ; because Furness — mother would 
forgive him for saying so — was a little careless 


and easy-going, did not look into things very 
closely, and might be robbed right and left by a 
groom who chose to rob him. Then, as to the 
other point. Flower’s connection with the turf, 
and his influence over his master, Mr. Lacer 
must say this. Flower really did know some- 
thing of the matter. His advice would be 
sound, in all likelihood, and based on experi- 
ence. Of course it might be better — well, he 
Avould say it certainly would be better — if Fur- 
ness cut the whole thing. But was that likely 
at present? And if it were not likely, would 
he not run the risk in losing Flower of finding 
some one ten times worse ? 

“ It is very generous and forgiving on your 
part to say all this,” said my mother, thought- 
fully. 

“ Well,” answered Mr. Lacer, Avith his frank 
bright laugh that flashed all over his face, “I 
am emboldened to speak freely, you see, be- 
cause I knoAv you are not likely to suspect me 
of any undue partiality for my friend Flower.” 

“I Avonder,” said I, “Avhy he selected you 
as the object of his slanders ! Had you given 
him any offense?” 

“None that I know of. But it really is use- 
less to reason about the matter. The fellow 
was drunk, and I suppose that he Avas in a 
quarrelsome, malicious mood, and confused me, 
in his stupid head, with some rascal of his ac- 
quaintance. I dare say the story he told Avas 
true enough, only applied to the Avrong person. 
Don’t think any more about it. Miss Furness.” 

But both mother and I did think about it, 
and speak about it. After Mr. Lacer had 
taken his leave we sat over the fire, in the dark, 
and talked and talked for an hour. 

“ I do think Mr. Lacer has behaved so Avell !” 
said my mother. 

“ Y— yes.” 

“You don’t seem to agree Avith me, Anne.” 

“I think he has behaved as he thought well 
and kindly ; but I doubt his being right. If 
father is persuaded to keep FIoAver just because 
he might get a worse man in his pidce, that is 
doing evil that good may come of it, instead of 
simply doing right at all hazards.” 

Mother sighed. And, after a little pause, 
she said : “ I am not sure, Anne, that your fa- 
ther Avould in any case have got rid of FloAver 
when once his first anger was over, and the 
man had begged pardon.” 

I felt this to be so likely that I AA^as silent. 

“And then you know, child,” proceeded mo- 
ther, “it may be that you and I feel this thing 
to be more dreadful and shocking than gentle- 
men do. You see Mr. Lacer treated it lightly. 
Men brought up like Flower can not be expect- 
ed to have a high standard of morals. We 
know so little of the world, Anne !” 

So Flower remained at Water-Eardley, and 
the above-narrated circumstance operated, as I 
have said, to put Mr. Lacer on a footing of in- 
timacy Avith us all. Mother would never have 
given her confidence to any one who had sternly 
disapproved her husband’s conduct. But this 


58 


ANNE FURNESS. 


Mr. Lacer was far from doing. He contrived 
to praise my father’s generous, hearty, trusting 
nature, even while lamenting his failings. One 
day he and my father went off together to a 
“match” that took place about twenty miles 
from us. I fancy it was a trotting match be- 
tween two ponies belonging to some London 
men. At all events the creatures ran in our 
country, and were “heavily backed,” as they 
phrased it. Father came back in high spirits. 
He had won largely, he said ; and in the next 
instant he frowned impatiently, and asked mo- 
ther why she looked so lackadaisical — wdiat 
was the matter? She couldn’t have put on a 
more wobegone countenance if he had lost ! It 
made my heart burn within me to see her pite- 
ous little smile, and her attempt to treat the 
rough words as a good-humored jest. Her 
sweet gentleness softened father’s mood, and 
he came and took her hand and looked into 
her face and said : “ Lucy, I do believe you 
are an angel.” The touch of kindness was 
more than she could bear — she who was so 
brave to suffer — and she put her head down on 
his shoulder and burst into tears ; and I ran 
away and cried to myself in a tumult of pity 
and indignation. 

The next time Mr. Lacer came to see us mo- 
ther took an opportunity, when my father was 
out of the room, to say to him, in her simple, 
sweet way, that she felt a little uneasy at his 
accompanying father so much to these different 
races and matches. “You are younger than 
George, Mr. Lacer ; and if he were the means, 
thoughtlessly, of leading you into temptation, 
it would hurt me — it would hurt us — so much.” 

Mr. Lacer flushed crimson, and looked for an 
instant as if he had scarcely understood her. 

“You mustn’t be angry with me,” mother 
went on. “You speak of standing between 
George and temptation, of dissuading him from 
this and that ; but take care that you don’t get 
a taste for gambling yourself. Those kinds of 
people are very cunning. I scarcely think you 
can be a match for them. How should you?” 
And then she gave him a little sermon. The 
words were commonplace enough, I dare say; 
but her sweetness and sincerity gave them 
value. Mr. Lacer repeated father’s words. 
“You are an angel, Mrs. Furness,” said he. 
“ If I had had a mother like you — ! But my 
own mother died when I was little more than a 
baby. If I could keep Furness straight and 
square I would, on my soul I would; and — 
don’t be afraid for me. I am up to most of 
their dodges ; so much the worse for me, you’ll 
say ! Well, I was left to scramble up as I could 
when my father married again, and I fell into 
bad hands. I lived in the stables almost. I 
got into scrapes that I’m ashamed to think of 
now. My father paid some ‘ debts of honor’ 
forme once, against his wife’s wish — Mrs.* Lacer 
loves money better than any thing in the world 
— and he told me that it was the last farthing, 
over and above my allowance, that I had to ex- 
pect from him. I was a boy of seventeen at 


the time, and I have never asked my father for 
money since. I wdsh I could forget all those 
bad times ; but I can’t undo the past. It is 
not all my fault, is it? You see I am candid. 
I think you can feel for me.” 

He spoke with so much feeling that we were 
quite moved. He easily showed emotion. The 
tears were brimming up in his eyes at that very 
moment. Mother did not think the worse of 
him for that. 

It was the day before the great Woolling ball ; 
Mr. Lacer staid to have tea with us, and we 
sat round the fire and chatted about the mor- 
row’s great event. Father did not scruple to 
quiz the whole thing, and Mr. Lacer ventured 
on a few mild jokes about his awe of Miss Cud- 
berry which made us laugh. I was seated near- 
est to the table, and an idle impulse prompted 
me to look at a “sporting paper” which lay on 
it. My father received it regularly, and it had 
come to be almost the only printed thing he 
ever read. It was not the sort of literature to 
tempt me naturally ; but as it lay there at my 
elbow I began idly to glance over its columns. 
This cursory perusal suggested several refiec- 
tions which I had the discretion to keep to my- 
self. But all at once my eye lighted on the 
following advertisement : “Confederate wanted 
(jx, gentlemanlike person indispensable), with cap- 
ital, to join the advertiser in carrying out a great 
thing. Plenty of amusement, combined with 
profit, for an amateur of racing. No turf ha- 
bitues need apply, as the covp must emanate 
from an unsuspected quarter. Address, Hie et 
Ubique, Post-Office, Brookfield.” 

“ What an extraordinary advertisement !” I 
cried, “what can it mean?” and I began to 
read it aloud. Father jumped up in a passion, 
and snatched the paper from my hand. “ That’s 
not reading for young ladies !” said he, angrily. 
“You’d best stick to your German and Latin” 
(this with a sneer which he always put on in 
speaking of my poor little attempts at learning). 

“ I don’t pay for your education in order that 
you may read such things as that ! ” 

■» 

CHAPTER XIX. 

I HOPE I shall have no reader who will be 
shocked at the fact, but — the truth must be 
told — the ball at Woolling began at half past 
seven o’clock, p.m. It w^as dark at that hour, 
being winter-time. But it is useless to dis- 
guise that we arrived at Uncle Cudberry’s at 
a little after eight, and were among the fash- 
ionably late arrivals. The night was dry ; but 
there was no moon, and we jolted along in the 
darkness over the deep, frozen ruts in the cart- 
track that led through the fields. A great 
stable-lantern hung on the wicket in the garden 
fence, so that we w’ere able to pick our way 
across the garden into the house. At the 
sound of our wheels two or three dogs began 
to bark, and a shock-headed boy ran out to 
take the horse. “ Can you put him up, Jack ?” 


55 ) 


ANNE FURNESS. 


said my father. Flower looked about him su- 
perciliously, but said nothing. He had been a 
trifle less openl}' insolent since the affair of Mr. 
Lacer. Yes ; the horse could be put up, Jack 
said. “ Some on ’em was at the Half-Moon in 
Woolling, and some on ’em at Farmer Batt’s ; 
but the master had given orders as Mr. George’s 
beast were to be put in the stable, and his man 
were to have summut to drink.” Jack empha- 
sized this communication in a manner which 
gave me to understand how deeply he was im- 
pressed by his master’s exceptional hospitality 
to “Mr. George.” I do not think that father 
appreciated it as any peculiar favor, / 

We Avent into the house, and were shown 
into a bedroom, to take our hoods and cloaks 
otf. I was surprised and disappointed to find 
no more preparation for this great occasion. 
.Every thing looked much as usual. I could 
not define what I had expected, but I had 
thought that in some way or other the house 
would have worn a more festive aspect. There 
were two candles blinking on the toilet-table, 
which only seemed to make the dark mirror 
darker ; and there Avas a Avoman-servant stand- 
ing in one corner of the room Avith a scared, 
sulky face. We took off our Avrappings AA’ithout 
much assistance from this damsel, and descend- 
ed to the ground-floor. Father was awaiting 
us at the door of the long sitting-room. We 
heard the tinkling of a piano from within, and 
entered just as a quadrille came to an end. 

The door was flung open for us by Daniel, 
AA'ho presented a curious spectacle in his livery 
coat. He had a large white cravat Avound 
round his throat, and I shall never forget the 
effect of his ruddy face and his ruddy locks 
rising above it. His hands were concealed by 
Avhite cotton gloves of such enormous dimen- 
sions that they looked like the colossal Avooden 
hands Avhich may sometimes be seen SAvinging 
as a sign o\'er a hosier’s shop. The long, Ioav 
room Avas but dimly lighted, considering the 
occasion. Candles Avere distributed here and 
there on little side-tables, and on the man- 
tel-piece, and on the piano. They were not 
very large candles, for their size had to be ac- 
commodated to that of the tall, old-fashioned 
silver candlesticks draAvn forth for the occasion 
from their SAvathings of Avash-leather ; and these 
candlesticks looked as if they had wasted away 
Avith years. There were so many people in the 
room already that it looked quite full, as those 
Avho had been dancing in the quadrille con- 
tinued to moA'e about the floor. We looked for 
Aunt Cudberry, but did not see her ; and very 
shortly Tilly caught sight of us, and advanced 
to receive us. Her first Avords, uttered in her 
customary piercing tones, were these : “ I’m 
doing the honors. Ma isn’t equal to it. How 
do you do. Cousin George? Hoav do you do, 
Mrs. George? Well, you and Anne are, the 
two extremes! Black velvet and white mus- 
lin I Never mind. You sit down there, Mrs. 
George, among the dowagers. I suppose you 
don't mean to dance !” 


Tilly had a pink silk dress on. It was rather 
short in front, and displayed her feet when she 
walked ; Avhen she danced it permitted a vieAV of 
her ankles. She wore a bushy Avreath of artificial 
floAvers round her head of a deeper pink than her 
gown. I do not know what natural floAver they 
were meant to represent. I have never seen 
any so large, except hollyhocks. But I suppose 
they could not have been intended for holly- 
hocks. Henny and Clernmy Avore blue and yel- 
loAv respectively. Each had a wreath. Clem- 
my, who was the smallest of the three sisters, 
appeared almost smothered beneath some Avhite 
•species of shrub. There were branches of it on 
her breast, and oU her sleeves, and on her skirt. 
She rustled and crackled Avhen she moved, and 
Avas constantly entangling herself in the other 
Avomen’s gOAvns. I had Avondered a good deal 
Avhat sort of people they Avould be whom we 
should find at the ball. I did not know many 
of our Cousin Cudberrys’ acquaintance. I think 
the company would ha\’e been considered a 
rather odd assemblage by most persons. There 
were Mr. and Mrs. Batt, a neighboring farmer 
and his Avife. Mrs. Batt Avore a satin goAvn and 
a turban, and looked unspeakably Avretched. 
(The majority of the guests looked that, though.) 
There Avere Sir Peter and Lady Bunny seated 
in state on the sofa, and struggling betAveen 
their OAvn desire to be sociable and good-hu- 
mored, and their entertainers’ determination to 
shoAV them off and exalt them, for the glory of 
the Cudberry family and the humiliation of 
the rest of the company. There were the doc- 
tor of Woolling and his wife and his Avife’s sis- 
ter. The doctor was very vh'acious, and said 
to CA’ery one whom he came near, “ Well ! hah, 
Sir !” or “ Hah, ma’am ! This is a lively scene. 
Great exhilaration of the animal spirits, hey ?” 
Mrs. Hamper (that was the name of the doc- 
tor’s wife) and her sister appeared to be in no 
danger of overexciting themselves. They sat 
side by side in one corner of the room behind 
the piano, and glared with gloomy impartiality 
upon every one. Mrs. Hamper had LoAv-Church 
tendencies, and was supposed to think dancing 
sinful. “ I Avonder she came I” said I to Tilly, 
who imparted this piece of information in my 
ear. “Oh, my dear! Came? Of course she 
came. When a Hamper is invited by a Cud- 
berry of. Woolling, you don't suppose a Hamper 
Avould stay aAvay, do you ?” 

Besides the above-mentioned guests, there 
Avas the family of a rich cloth-weaver, and the 
family of a poor clergyman, Avho received pu- 
pils in his house. And there were some of the 
said pupils, looking a good deal bcAvildered, I 
thought, and dancing meekly with the Misses 
Cudberry, who coolly handed them over from 
one to another in this fashion : “ Oh, you haven’t 
danced with Miss Cudberry yet, have you ? Or 
was it your friend who sat out ? Ah, Avell then, 
you can dance with my sister Clementina next 
time. Miss Cudberry comes first. That is our 
rule.” Qr, “I think wdre all engaged for this 
dance. I’ll get you a partner. The young 


60 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


lady in green ? No : you’d better ask Miss Jolly 
this time. We shouldn’t like Miss Jolly to feel 
herself neglected.” Miss Jolly was the cloth- 
Aveaver’s eldest daughter — a \'ery large and poAV- 
erful young woman, who bore down upon the 
other Avaltzers like a man-of-AA’ar among a fleet 
of cock-boats, and Avhirled her partners out of 
breath in no time. 

I managed to seat myself near Barbara Bun- 
ny, Avho Avas looking on at the proceedings Avith 
her placid blue eyes rather wider open than 
usual. “Ain’t they rather strange people, 
Anne ?” she Avhispered to me. ‘ ‘ Who ?” said I. 

“ Oh, almost all of them. That stout old 
lady in the red gown that looks like bed-cur- 
tains” — pointing toAA’ard a certain Mrs. Hodge- 
kinson, whose husband I kneAv to be a rich 
farmer, breAver, banker, and land-OAvner, at a 
village about five miles from Woolling — “ asked 
me all on a sudden if I liked going out to par- 
ties; and Avhen I said ‘yes,’ she told me she 
didn’t. And she thought the best plan was for 
every body to stay in their oAvn houses, and eat 
Avhat they’d got ! And her son — that’s her son 
Avith the ruby studs, and the kind of flounce on 
his shirt-front — asked me to dance Avith him, 
and offered me a peppermint lozenge in the 
middle of the Lancers.” 

Barbara’s A'oice Avas almost plaintive as she 
narrated these experiences, and the contrast of 
her serious tone Avith the absurdity of that which 
she Avas saying, set me off into a fit of irrepress- 
ible laughter. 

“It is delightful to see you so merry!” said 
a voice very near me. I turned, and saAv Mr. 
Lacer and Sam Cudberry standing behind my 
chair. It Avas the former Avho had spoken. 
“ Oh, Mr. Lacer,” exclaimed Barbara, just like 
a child, “ I am so glad to see you !” 

I could almost have echoed the exclamation 
myself. Mr. Lacer’s presence in that company 
AA’as truly Avelcome. One felt at least safe Avith 
him. As to the others, there Avas no antici- 
pating Avhat they Avould say or do next. Mr. 
Lacer made Barbara a very Ioav boAv, and pro- 
fessed himself overwhelmed by her kindness. 
But it Avas not difficult to see, by the tAvinkle 
in his eye, and the smile that flashed for a 
moment over his face, that he Avas not vain 
enough to put doAvn Miss Bunny’s delight at 
seeing him entirely to the score of his personal 
merits. 

At this moment Clementina struck up a 
waltz tune on the piano. There Avas no pro- 
fessional musician engaged. The performance 
of the music was divided among such of the 
ladies as could and Avould play. And the va- 
rieties of rhythm thus obtained Avere very re- 
markable. 

“Is this a waltz?” asked Mr. Lacer, doubt- 
fully. 

“Oh no!” screeched Tilly Cudberry, bus- 
tling up to us. “It’s the Portuguese. Don’t 
you know the Portuguese?” She turned to 
Barbara as she spoke, and Mr. Lacer seized 
the opportunity to whisper to me, hastily, 


“Will you dance this Avith me, Avhatever it is? 
Do, please, Miss Furness!” I boAved, Avithout 
daring to raise my eyes for fear I should laugh. 
I was just in the mood when the slightest touch 
Avould have overbalanced my gravity, and dis- 
graced me forever in the eyes of my cousins. 

“I don’t know the Portuguese,” said Bar- 
bara, timidly. 

“Oh, you must learn ! Sam Avill be delight- 
ed to teach you. Sam, give Miss Bunny your 
arm, and take her top couple but tAvo. Henny 
and I dance first and second couple. ” 

Barbara was led off to her fate unresistingly. 
Then Tilly turned to Mr. Lacer. “Noav, Mr. 
Lacer,” said she, with a little asperity. “ Come ! 
You knoAv the Portuguese!” 

Mr. Lacer protested that he had been fa- 
miliar Avith it from boyhood. Miss Cudberry 
AA'aited, standing opposite to him Avith some- 
Avhat the air of a street constable, Avho has de- 
sired a refractory apple-A'endor to “moA'e on.” 
“Miss Furness is going to do me the honor 
of dancing it with me,” added Mr. Lacer, in- 
trepidly. 

“ Anne ? Why, goodness ! Anne don’t know 
it.” 

“I am about to ha\'e the pleasure of teach- 
ing it to her,” said Mr. Lacer; and he led me 
to the bottom of the double line that Avas being 
formed doAvn the room. Tilly remained staring 
after us. I Avas by no means sure that she 
AA’ould not even then seize Mr. Lacer by force, 
and drag him to the top of the room ; it Avas so 
entirely against the rules and regulations at 
Woolling for a gentleman to dance first Avith 
any one but Miss Cudberry ! IIoAvever, Tilly 
pressed Mr. Hamper, the doctor, into the serv- 
ice, and taking her place Avith him for her 
partner, gave the signal for the dance to be- 
gin. 

I neA'er have seen the “Portuguese” any 
Avhere but at Uncle Cudberry’s. The girls had 
learned it long ago at school, and I think it 
must have been the exclusive property of their 
dancing-master, and his OAvn invention into the 
bargain. But with their habitual Avay of ignor- 
ing that that Avhich Avas familiar to them might 
not be so to the rest of the Avorld, the Misses 
Cudberry assumed that every one kneAv the 
Portuguese, and insisted that it should be per- 
formed. It was the dreariest dance in the 
Avorld. You advanced and retreated, and took 
hands, and Avent round and round monotonous- 
ly to an old-fashioned Avaltz tune played very 
sloAvly. Tilly and Henny, Avho Avere proud of 
their dancing, did elaborate “s^cps,” and ap- 
peared to enjoy it. But the people Avho couldn’t 
do steps cut a very aAvkAvard figure, and gloom 
AA'as depicted on their faces. 

Miss Jolly had got the youngest and meek- 
est of the pupils in toAV, and was bearing doAvn 
pOAverfull}' on the other dancers Avith that Aveak 
craft in her Avake, Avhen she Avent round and 
round Avith him, her petticoats making a kind of 
maelstrom into Avhich small or unwary persons 
Avere continually being, as it Avere, attracted by 


ANNE FURNESS. 


G1 


an irresistible power. Twice I saw Clemen- 
tina Cudberry engulfed — bowery branches and 
all — in the voluminous folds of Miss Jolly’s 
thick corded silk gown, that went flap, flap, 
flap, like the main-sail of a ship. I don’t be- 
lieve Miss Jolly was aware of Clemmy, until 
some by-standers stepped forward to extricate 
her. And had it not been for that circum- 
stance I have no doubt Miss Jolly would have 
swept on through the mazes of the Portuguese 
with no more embarrassment or difficulty than 
if Clemmy had been a bramble clinging to her 
skirt. 

I had been in a laughing mood all the early 
part of the evening, but the influence of the 
Portuguese would have depressed Puck him- 
self! By the time we went in to supper every 
one looked exhausted. Poor mother had been 
wedged in between Mrs. Hodgekinson and Mrs. 
Batt, and had had to listen to their conversa- 
tion for three mortal hours. The two ladies 
had a standing feud which had lasted so long 
that I believe the original subject of it had been 
forgotten. However, that did not prevent 
them from sparring at each other with great 
vindictiveness whenever they met. They talk- 
ed to my mother and at each other ; occasion- 
ally sending a shot direct to the enemy, and 
blazing away very fiercely. I conjectured that 
they found some enjoyment in these hostilities. 
Certainly nothing would have been easier than 
for either party to get up and walk away from 
the other. But they remained in juxtaposition 
all the evening. 

Mr. Cudberry achieved the distinction of, for 
once, uniting the combatants and mortally of- 
fending both of them, by coming up to offer 
my mother his arm to lead her to supper, and 
saying audibly as he did so, “ Why didn’t some 
o’ the girls look after you, ’stead of leaving you 
to be a shuttle-cock betwixt them two tough old 
battle-dores ? I reckon you’ll have had a bad 
time of it, Mrs. George!” 

At supper appeared Aunt Cudberry, whom I 
had scarcely caught a glimpse of before. She 
put one in mind of a child’s drawing on a slate, 
she was so very much awry, and looked so odd- 
ly out of the perpendicular. She really did re- 
semble a fancy portrait of a lady I had seen ex- 
ecuted by one of the little Arkwrights. She 
wore a plum-colored satin gown, and a cap with 
roses in it. And she had a very large lace col- 
lar on that came down half-way over her chest, 
and was fastened by a brooch containing a da- 
guerreotype portrait of her son. Poor Aunt 
Cudberry ! She had been toiling in the kitch- 
en with her plum-colored satin skirt pinned up, 
and made her appearance at the head of the 
table with a hot, red face, but still smiling with 
gutta-percha flexibility. 

The supper, as the Cudberrys boasted, had 
been entirely prepared at home. There were 
a roast turkey, and a couple of pairs of fowls, 
and a piece of beef, and a ham. And these 
were all very good fare in themselves ; but they 
were spoiled by an extraordinary taste like the 


smell of new furniture, that pervaded them all 
more or less. It was some time before I could 
guess at the cause of this strange circumstance ; 
but when I turned my eyes on the sweets I fan- 
cied I had discovered it. Aunt Cudberry, from 
motives of economy or convenience, had evi- 
dently purchased a quantity of gelatine for the 
preparation of her jellies, and so forth. There 
was gelatine in all forms and of all colors of 
the rainbow ; but, alas ! these varieties were 
strictly and solely external, for every sweet dish 
on the table tasted like all the others, and a 
subtile stickiness had communicated itself to all 
the edibles. I believe the cook must have 
glazed the turkey and the fowls and the beef 
with gelatine. Miss Jolly’s brother, whose 
manners were not polished, and who was con- 
sidered a wag in his own family, whispered to 
Barbara Bunny, “Glue, by jingo!” and made 
grimaces, as though his tongue wei*e stuck to 
his mouth, after swallowing a spoonful of jelly, 
which dreadfully disconcerted poor Barbara. 
The young gentleman with the ruby studs, and 
the flounce on his shirt-front, ate nothing after 
the first mouthful or so. Perhaps he had tak- 
en away his appetite with peppermint lozenges ; 
but he drank glass after glass of wine, and my 
attention was attracted to him as he sat oppo- 
site to me by seeing his mother, Mrs. Hodge- 
kinson, stretch forth her arm and remove the 
decanter from his reach, and when he remon- 
strated she said, quite savagely, “No, William, 
you don’t. It’s no better than poison. British 
port, indeed! /know it.” 

It is to be feared that the Cudberry hospi- 
tality did not convert Mrs. Hodgekinson from 
her unsociable theory that it was best for folks 
to stay in their own houses and eat what they’ve 
got ! 

When we returned to the dancing-room, I 
offered to play a waltz for Tilly. My musical 
skill was extremely small, but it sufficed for 
that. Tilly received my offer very ungracious- 
ly, but did not hesitate to accept it. As I sat 
at the piano-forte running my fingers over the 
keys, and waiting until the dancers should be 
ready, I unwillingly overheard a little family 
quarrel between Tilly and Henny Cudberry and 
their brother. The subject of it was Mr. Lacer. 
Tilly was furiously indignant at what she termed 
his neglect of her. Sam, who was willing to 
support the family dignity so far as it was com- 
fortable and convenient to himself to do so, but 
not one inch farther, bluntly told her she was 
a fool, and that he was not going to have his 
friend set against him by her nonsense. Hen- 
ny sided with her sister. There was a sharp 
altercation. “You nmst give him to under- 
stand, Sam,” said Tilly, bridling and shaking 
her head till the hollyhocks quivered again, 
“ that the person to be attended to here is Miss 
Cudberry. He hasn’t asked me to dance once. 
It’s shameful.” 

“Well, I suppose he don’t want to. Is it 
my fault? You should make yourself more 
agreeable.” 


62 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


“I think, Sam,” observed Henny, waspisli- 
ly, “ that you might stand up for your own fam- 
ily. I always did suppose that the Miss Cud- 
berrys of Woolling were somebody.” 

“ Oh, blow it ! I ain’t a-going to quarrel with 
Lacer, and so I tell you. He’s promised to 
introduce me to ever such tip-toppers in his 
regiment. If I was to say, ‘ Please would you 
be so kind as dance with my sister ?’ he’d laugh 
at me, wouldn’t he? You want to make a fel- 
low look like a fool. And if he likes dancing 
with somebody else better than you, it’s no good 
trying to bully him out of it. Added to which,” 
continued Sam, with much candor, “I don’t 
believe he’d stand it 1” 

I felt very uncomfortable during my invol- 
untary eaves -dropping, and played away as 
loud as I could ; but it was not easy to drown 
the Cudberfy voices. 

Later I observed Mr. Lacer dancing with 
Clementina, and afterward with Henny ; but I 
knew that would not suffice to appease “Miss 
Cudberry.” Indeed, when I considered within 
myself what amount of enjoyment had been de- 
rived by any one from this so much anticipated 
ball, it seemed to me to be distressingly little. 
Mrs. Batt was in a confirmed state of “ tiff” the 
whole evening. Mrs. Hodgekinson’s maternal 
breast was distracted by apprehensions as to the 
results of the “British port” on the constitu- 
tion of her only son, besides being in a glow 
or smoulder of indignation at not having been 
taken in to supper by the host. Mrs. Hamper 
and her sister appeared to be a prey to the 
profoundest gloom. Aunt Cudberry was tired 
and worried. The clergyman’s pupils, from 
being simply meek and tractable, had sunk into 
a condition of exhausted imbecility — due per- 
haps partly to the port, but also in a great 
measure to the Portuguese ! In brief, the only 
persons who did not exhibit signs of more or 
less severe suffering were Uncle Cudberry and 
Miss Jolly. The former was as undemon- 
strative as the figure-head of a ship. The lat- 
ter was blessed with marvelous vigor both of 
body and spirit. Mr. Lacer gave me his arm 
to conduct me across the garden when we went 
away, and as we followed my parents toward 
the carriage he whispered, with a sigh, “By 
Jove that was severe. Miss Purness ! You look 
quite done up.” 

“ I am rather tired.” 

“ I am ashamed to say that I am, but it is 
the truth. There’s something peculiarly ex- 
hausting about the atmosphere of that house, I 
do believe.” 

“Not for everybody, it seems. Look there.” 

He turned in the direction to which I point- 
ed, and w'e saw flitting at regular intervals 
across the window-blind a colossal shadow, ac- 
companied by a smaller one. It was Miss Jol- 
ly performing a final polka with one of the 
pupils. 


CHAPTER XX, 

Donald Ayrlie had been to Water-Eard- 
ley according to his promise. He walked 
out to us twice in the morning, each time 
arriving long before my father was out of 
bed. On the first of these occasions he asked 
for Mr. Furness, and being told that he had not 
yet left his room, he inquired with much con- 
cern what was the matter with him. The sec- 
ond time Donald came he did not mention my 
father, and I think poor mother was half in- 
clined to be vexed and offended by the omis- 
sion, although it relieved me of some embar- 
rassment. Her love for my father had become 
a very jealous love. For, alas ! it often needed 
justifying to herself, and she was as resentful 
as her sweet nature permitted of any seeming 
slight to him from others. 

We told my father that Donald Ayrlie had 
been to see him. “To see mef he answered, 
coldly; “what will Dr. Hewson say to that?” 

No one ventured to make any reply. My 
grandfather’s name was rarely mentioned in 
father’s presence now. The estrangement be- 
tween them had grown rapidly of late. Grand- 
father could force himself to be silent as to his 
son-in-law’s reckless course of life ; but father’s 
conscience would not be silent. I believe it 
spoke bitterly whenever the dear old man was 
present, and made my father savage with the 
pain and shame of its reproaches. The two 
men saw each other very seldom. Mother and 
I avoided speaking of my grandfather save 
when we were alone together, lest I should be 
forbidden, in some burst of temper, to go to 
Mortlands. As it was, father troubled not 
himself about my spending the day there when- 
ever I chose ; but had he once been provoked 
into forbidding me to go thither, mother and I 
were convinced that he would not easily have 
relented. So the mention of Donald’s name 
having been unfavorably received, we avoided 
the subject in father’s presence thenceforward. 

To say the truth I had not been thinking 
much of Donald or of my grandfirther either 
during the fortnight preceding the Woolling 
ball. My head had been full of muslin skirts, 
satin ribbons, artificial flowers, and other trump- 
ery. My vanity began to develop itself por- 
tentously. I neglected my studies. I had not 
been near Mr. Arkwright’s house for two weeks. 

I passed much time before the looking-glass ; 
but the hours so spent were by no means all 
delightful. I never attained to such a pitch 
of self-satisfaction as to make them so. I 
could not then, or ever, hoodwink my con- 
science. Shut my mind’s ears and eyes as per- 
sistently as I would against the higher things 
of which I had had some hints and glimpses, 
there remained chinks and crannies through 
which came light and sound. 

The morning after the ball I rose at my usual 
hour. Mother was fatigued, and did not leave 
her room. I was alone in the little sitting- 
room, when Donald came striding across the 


ANNE FURNESS. 


garden. I saw him from the window. There 
was a slight sprinkling of snow which had fallen 
during the night, and his firm, rapid step made 
it crackle. He lifted his hat when he saw me, 
and the wintry sunlight shone on his hair and 
on his clear, candid eyes, and on his cheek all 
a-glow with health and exercise. It did not 
take him long to reach the sitting-room. Don- 
ald had more directness of mind and movement 
than any one I ever knew. 

His first inquiry on finding me alone was for 
my mother. When I said she was not down 
yet, being fatigued by her last night’s dissipa- 
tion, Donald said he had forgotten or had never 
known on which day the ball was to take place, 
otherwise he would not have come to Water- 
Eardley so early. But Dr. Hewson had sent 
him expressly to ask me to go and spend the 
day at Mortlands if it were possible. “ I meant 
to have asked you to walk back with me, as it 
is such a fine, bright morning,” said Donald, 
“ but perhaps you would be too tired to walk ?” 

I said no, I should not be too tired. I had 
a slight headache, but the fresh air would take 
that away, only I must first see how my mo- 
ther was, and if she could spare me. I ran up 
stairs, and easily obtained my mother’s permis- 
sion to go. She was always willing and even 
eager that I should go to Mortlands. When I 
came down into the sitting-room with my bon- 
net and warm shawl on, ready to set out, I 
found Donald looking at one of the “sporting 
papers” which lay on the table. He pushed it 
on one side when I came into the room, and 
made no remark. But the circumstance re- 
minded me of the strange advertisement I had 
seen. I did not like to speak to Donald on 
the subject, but I resolved to mention it to 
my grandfather. The words, “ Address, Post- 
office, Brookfield,” haunted me. Brookfield! 
Who could the person be at Brookfield who 
needed a “confederate” for any such purpose 
as that indicated in the advertisement ? 

“Your friends in Horsingham have not seen 
much of you lately, Anne,” said Donald, when 
we were outside the gates of Water-Eardley. 

“No; I have been remiss. I must make 
amends. How are the Arkwrights ? I’m afraid 
Mr. Arkwright must be angry with me for neg- 
lecting my lessons this last fortnight.” 

“ You could scarcely have taken your lessons 
at his house. The children have all been very 
ill. I have been in Wood Street every day — 
sometimes twice a day.” 

“The children ill! Oh, poor little chil- 
dren ! How sorry — how very, very sorry I am ! 
Are they better ? Poor Mrs. Arkwright ! What 
has been their illness ?” 

“An ordinary childish disorder enough; 
but they had it badly. They are mending 
now, however. Your grandfather has been so 
good to them.” 

“ Bless him ! He is always good.” 

“And they have had another kind friend — a 
humble friend. Alice Kitchen has been at the 
Arkw'rights’ night and day. She sat up ■with 


G3 

little Mary, who w'as the worst, for three nights, 
and made the poor mother take some rest.” 

“Alice Kitchen!” 

“Yes. She made great friends with the 
children at Mortlands. They have been once 
or twice since your grand party to play in the 
garden. Alice heard a great deal about them 
from old Keturah, and when they were taken 
sick, she went and carried them some jelly of 
her own making; and in some way she con- 
trived to win Mrs. Arkwright’s heart. Alice 
is a good woman.” 

I felt so grieved and self-reproachful that my 
heart was full. What must they have thought 
of me, taking no heed of them in their sorrow ? 

“I wish I had known it!” I exclaimed. 
“ How heartless they must think me !” 

“To say truth,” returned Donald, “ I don’t 
believe Mr. and Mrs. Arkwright have been 
thinking much of any thing except the chil- 
dren. But little Jane mentioned you yester- 
day, and Mrs. Arkwright told her she would 
ask you to go and see her. The worst is over ; 
and luckily the worst was over before the Kitch- 
ens’ trouble came.” 

“ What ! are they in trouble too ?” 

“ Old Green, the coach-maker, is dead. He 
died at twelve o’clock the night before last.” 

A great many thoughts rushed into my mind 
at this news. I thought of the conversation I 
had been a witness to between my father and 
Mat Kitchen ; and I wondered — half hoping, 
half fearing — whether the old man’s death 
would relieve my father from any immediate 
pressure of debt. I thought, too, of Mr. Kitch- 
en and of Alice, and of the change this event 
would make in their fortunes. 

“My old enemy, Mr. Matthew Kitchen, Vv'ill 
be a rich man, I suppose,” said Donald. 

“And his father and his sister — will not they 
inherit a share of Mr. Green’s money ?” 

“I know little about it. But some people 
say that Matthew had purposely estranged his 
grandfather from every one, in the hope of 
clutching every thing for himself. He is not a 
good sort, Mr. Mat. Do you remember our 
tea-drinking at his father’s house, Anne — and 
the butter-cakes ?” 

“ And your defiance. How heroically brave 
I thought you!” 

Upon this we drifted into talk of the old 
time, growing gradually engrossed with our- 
selves and our own thoughts, to the exclusion 
of less selfish topics, as is the wont of young 
people. We were talking with so little heed 
of what was passing around us, that a swift 
horseman, mounted on a pretty chestnut horse, 
overtook us, and shot past us almost before we 
were aware of the sound of the animal’s hoofs, 
although they clattered noisily enough on the 
hard, frozen road. In passing, the rider, with 
a quick, dextrous movement, raised his hat to 
me, and was gone in a moment beyond the pos- 
sibility of perceiving the return salute which I, 
rather awkwardly and confusedly, sent after 
him. 


64 


ANNE FURNESS. 


The start and surprise made me redden. I 
felt my face burn, and it burned none the less 
for seeing Donald look surprised and inquiring, 
though he asked no question. 

“That is a friend of father’s,” said I — “a 
friend of ours. How fast he was riding ! It 
quite startled me. It was Mr. Lacer. Haven’t 
you heard mother speak of him ?’’ 

“Oh!” said Donald. He relapsed into si- 
lence, and — I am sure unconsciously — began to 
stride along at a great pace. Fortunately we 
were within a few yards of Mortlands, or I 
should have had much ado to keep up with 
him. 



CHAPTER XXL 

Grandfather spoke to me very long and 
earnestly that day. He walked up and down 
the garden with me before dinner, talking with 
me for an hour or more. He began by saying 
how long it was since I had been to Mortlands, 
not, however, reproaching me in the least. 
Then he asked me how things were going on 
at home. I had not a very cheering account 
to give. There was little change in father. 
I read more of troubles and anxieties in mo- 
ther’s face than I was ever explicitly told by 
word of mouth ; and I said this to my grand- 
father. He walked up and down the path in 
silence once or twice, with a vexed look on his 
face and a puckered brow. Then he told me 
that some time ago — at the period when my 
father gave up the greater part of his farm — he 
(grandfather) had proposed to my parents to 
take me to live altogether in his house. They 
had rejected the proposal. My father had 
even been angered by it, so that grandfather 
had said no more. He had reason to think 
now, however, that the plan might no longer be 
so unacceptable. He had my mother’s leave 
to broach it to me. What did I say to it ? 

The first thing I said was, “Oh, grand- 
father, I couldn’t ! I never could leave mo- 
ther!” • '• - 

He put his hand on my forehead and stroked 
it gently, without saying a word for a little while. 
Then he went on to explain that money troubles 
were gathering fast around us. He had, in- 
deed, from what he had heai-d in Horsingham, 
been led to expect that a great crash was im- 
minent months ago. But the difficulty had 
been tided over in some way that he did not 
comprehend ; perhaps by money won on some 
race-course ; perhaps by borrowing. (I thought 
of what Mr. Cudberry had said of old Green’s 
money-lending, and I remembered once more 
father’s interview with Mat Kitchen.) In 
either case no permanent mending of George 
Furness’s fortunes had been achieved. No 
permanent mending could be achieved unless 
great changes were made. Grandfather’s own 
notion was that it would be well to give up the 
farm entirely, let the house, or sell the remain- 
der of the lease, and thus pay off all debts. 


which, he conjectured, the money thus realized 
would suffice to do. Then my father should 
either obtain a situation as manager of some 
large farm, or some similar employment, or he 
and my mother could, at the worst, subsist de- 
cently for a time on the interest of her little 
fortune, especially if I were provided for at 
Mortlands. The main thing, in grandfather’s 
judgment, was to get my father away from 
Horsingham, so as to break off all racing con- 
nections. In that lay his only hope. 

I listened with a growing oppression on my 
spirits. “ Is it so bad with us, grandfather ?” I 
asked,, 

“It is as bad, fully as bad, as I have told 
you, little Nancy. You are a woman grown, 
though I still give you the child’s nickname. 
And you are coming into the heritage of adult 
mortals. I don’t think you wish to shirk your 
share of the family burden.” 

“No, indeed. But, grandfather,” I added, 
after a pause of reflection, “do you think it at 
all possible to bring father to consent to give up 
the farm and the house ?” 

“ Rightly asked, child. I am glad you can 
bring your brains to bear on the matter, though 
you do look so white and scared — poor little 
Nancy! I own I thought the project very 
hopeless at first. But your mother has been 
working at it for a long time. Her influence 
over George is not wholly lost. He seems 
gradually to have been brought to contemplate 
the scheme.” 

“I am sure father would wish to pay his 
debts.” 

Grandfather opened his lips as if to speak, 
and then closed them again without having 
spoken. At length he said: “Your father, 
Anne, of course would feel such a change in 
his position as the one I speak of as a great 
misfortune. It would involve the making of a 
considerable sacrifice. I do not at all blink 
that fact. But I am sure the sacrifice ought 
to be made — for his own sake quite as much as 
for others. Your mother is ready to do her 
part.” 

“Would they — would they go away from 
Horsingham altogether ?” 

“Altogether ? What does that mean, Anne ? 
Speak your thought clearly, child.” 

“ I mean, would they go to settle themselves 
in a distant country, with no idea of returning 
hither at all ?” 

“Such would be my advice, and, I think, 
your father’s desire. But it would greatly de- 
pend on circumstances, of course.” 

“ Grandfather, I could not leave mother. I 
could not ! , I would not be a burden to them. 

I have been taught. I can teach. I can sew. 
It would not be right to leave mother!” And 
I burst into tears. 

“Not if she wished it, Anne?” 

“ She always wishes to put others before 
herself.” 

“Well, child; well, well; God forbid that I 
should urge you against your conscience.” 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


65 


“Dear grandfather,” said I, throwing my 
arms about his neck, “don’t think me ungrate- 
ful to you. I know how good and kind you 
are.” 

“Tut, tut, tut, child! There, there! we 
will speak farther by-and-hy. Let the matter 
soak into your mind. We are called upon to 
decide nothing hastily.” 

I ‘Went away to my own little room — the 
rocfm that had been mine at Mortlands from 
my earliest remembrance — and sat down on 
the white bed to think, and to wipe away the 
tears from my streaming eyes. One idea that 
returned again and again, growing more and 
more distinct from out the tossing sea of my 
thoughts, was that Mr. Lacer had been partly 
instrumental in inducing my father to think for 
an instant of making the proposed sacrifice. 
The scheme might not, perhaps, have been 
laid before him by my father. Indeed, it was 
probable that it had not been. But Mr. Lacer’s 
influence was always used, as he told us, to 
keep my father from his fatal infatuation — to 
“keep him straight,” as he phrased it. He 
often said — I had often heard him say — that 
the husband of so sweet and good a woman as 
Mrs. Furness could never do- too much to show 
his appreciation of her, and that she deserved 
to be considered in every thing. In his pres- 
ence my father would often restrain the hot 
temper which had of late displayed itself even 
toward the wife whom he loved. He did love 
her dearly to the last. I know it now, although 
at that time the bitterness of my resentment 
for all he made her suffer often hardened me 
from acknowledging it. 

Despite grandfather’s approving remark that 
I was able “to bring my brains to bear on the 
matter,” I fear that as I sat on the little white 
bed the matter coursed through my brains at 
its own will. I delivered myself up to the 
thoughts that came and went like cloud-shad- 
ows on a windy day. But by the time I went 
down stairs to dinner I was fully resolved that 
I would remain with my parents if they would 
let me. 

The dinner w'as not very cheerful. To me 
there had always been an atmosphere of con- 
tentment in Mortlands, although I doubt not 
strangers would have found the old house 
dreary and dull. But the ghosts of all my 
day-dreams, from childhood upward, peopled 
Mortlands for me, from garret to basement. 
And then there was the presence of my dear 
grandfather ; or, if not his presence, the knowl- 
edge that he was at hand, in his garden or 
his study. But now an oppression of spirit 
weighed on us all. Grandfather was thought- 
ful and absent ; Donald was very silent and 
reserved ; Mrs. Abram for once was not the 
most lackadaisical of the party. 

We talked of the Arkwrights, That was 
not a cheerful subject. Grandfather said they 
were very, very poor, and that Mr. Arkw’right 
was hampered with debts. Then Ave spoke 
of old Mr. Green’s death, and that Avas not a 
E 


cheerful subject. The old man had not been 
beloA’ed ; there could be little pretense of re- 
gretting him among the members of his OAvn 
family. But it Avas doubtful whether he had 
not been as unamiable in death as in life, and 
bequeathed the bulk of his money to the grand- 
child who least needed it. People began to 
say, they told me, that it would most likely 
turn out that Mat Kitchen Avould get all. Old 
Green thought a deal of him. He Avas a steady- 
going young man; none of your squandering 
spendthrifts ; regular at chapel ; quite a pious 
person. Folks like to leaA'e money to money. 
Dribbling aAvay a good sum among a lot of 
poor people Avas like pouring Avater into a sieA^e. 
And so forth. 

“I hope poor Alice Avill get something,” 
said I. 

“I don’t think she expects it herself,” ob- 
served Donald. “Her brother has been far 
from kind to her lately. He kept her aAvay 
from old Green’s bedside to the last. One 
grievance he has chosen to pretend against her 
— for it must be pretense — is, that she AV'as 
so much at the parson’s, as he calls Mr. Ark- 
Avright’s house. He says it is enough to cause 
scandal among her OAvn congregation! Can 
you fancy the brute being such an audacious 
humbug ?” 

Grandfather and I could not help smiling at 
the strength of Donald’s phraseology. Mrs. 
Abram raised her eyes, and did not smile. 
“Dissenters!” she murmured, “poor creat- 
ures ! ” 

“Why, Judith, don’t you think MattheAv 
Kitchen might be a canting curmudgeon eA'en 
if he were not a Dissenter?” said my grand- 
father. 

“ Ah, love ! who shall say ? 15 ut, of course, 
he has more poAver over ’em when they put 
themselves out of the pale of the church.” 

No one replied to this dogmatic position. 
And shortly afterAvard we left the dinner-table. 

I had expressed a desire to go out and see 
Alice. It was arranged that Donald should 
Avalk Avith me to her house, and that Ave should 
afterAvard proceed to Mr. ArkAvright’s, there to 
meet grandfather, Avho would be paying his 
medical visit to the sick children. 

Burton’s garden looked the same as it had 
looked when I first saAv it. And the Kitchens’ 
little house looked the same also. It was as 
bright and neat and orderly as ever. There 
Avas the same colored sand on the tiny garden 
path outside it ; and it seemed to me that the 
same flowers Avere groAving there, leaf for leaf, 
as had met my childish eyes twelve or thirteen 
years ago. 

We found Alice in the parlor, with a large 
board placed OA’^er the table-cover, cutting out 
some black stutf for a mourning gown. 

“Why, Mr. Ayrlie,” she exclaimed, clap- 
ping her hands and letting the scissors fall 
Avhen she saAv him. Miss Anne ! Well 

noAv this is friendly, and like old times, isn’t 
it?” 


G6 


ANNE FURNESS. 


We had found the front-door merely latched, 
and had walked in without the ceremony of 
knocking. Alice was alone in the house. Her 
father was gone to his work, she said. What 
good would it do for him to stop at home ? Be- 
sides, there was a job at the shop to be got out 
of hand. Mat was sure to have it done in time, 
so as not to disappoint a customer, and make 
folks think the business wouldn’t be carried 
on as usual. And Mat was master now to all 
appearance. Well, when milk was spilt, she 
supposed it Was best to wipe it up out of the 
way. Crying over it would do no good, as she 
could see. We must sit down, and have a 
glass of ginger wine, and a slice of seed-cake — 
her own making both, and warranted of the 
best. For her part, she could do without daint- 
ies ; but what she did have she would have 
good. 

Alice was as loquacious and apparently in as 
good spirits as ever. She bustled about into 
the kitchen and back again to fetch the wine 
and cake. She would hear of no refusal, but 
whipped away her work and the board, and 
spread a snow-white cloth over one bit of the 
table, and set glasses and knives and plates on 
it, with the brisk decision habitual to her. 
There was not the remotest pretense of be- 
ing in gi'ief about her voice or her movements. 
So perfectly unconcerned did she seem that I 
felt quite bashful in stammering out — “ I was 
sorry to hear of Mr. Green’s death, Alice. I 
only learned it from Mr. Ayrlie this morning.” 

“ Thank you. Miss Anne. Yes he’s gone 
is poor grandfather. He was full of years, you 
know. Take another glass, Mr. Ayrlie. It 
warms the stomach on a cold day like this. 
And there’s no trash in it — no ’dulteration. 
Shop things is full of ’dulteration. I hear as 
they put it in pretty well in every thing nowa- 
days. Grandfather was greatly respected, and 
he left a good bit of property behind him. No 
one can say to the contrary of that.” 

“ Some of it ought to fall to your share, Al- 
ice ; and I hope it will,” said I. 

“ Ah ! ought stands for nothing in this world. 
Miss Anne. And I fancy that’s about all I 
shall get. I’m making myself a black gown, 
you see, whether or no. It isn’t for me to show 
any want of respect to my poor mother’s own 
father. As for crying and sobbing, I can’t 
play the hypocrite. But I shall put on a de- 
cent bit o’ mourning. Mrs. Mat, my sister-in- 
law, she cried a good ’un. ‘Why, Selina,’ 
says I, ‘you cry enough for two, though you 
are but a connection by marriage ; so there’s 
no need for me to add to the family lamenta- 
tions. But I’ve no doubt Mat managed it all 
right, and that grandfather has left his money 
to your satisfaction.’ ‘ Why,’ says she, jerking 
the pocket-handkerchief away from her face as 
sharp as possible, ‘what do you know how 
he’s left his money ?’ ‘I don’t know,’ says I ; 

‘ but I guess you needn’t bother yourself. It ’ll 
be right enough for you, I lay. So you can go 
on crying again quite comfortahle.^ ” 


There had for some time been warfare be- 
tween the sisters-in-law. So long as the battle 
was fought with the tongue, Alice would un- 
doubtedly have the best of it, for Selina had 
always been dull and slow-witted. But “Mrs. 
Mat” could have final recourse to the heavy 
artillery of solid facts. Her silk gown, her 
gold watch, her new carpet for the sitting-room, 
her china dinner-service, her patent roasting- 
jack that W'ent with a spring — w^ere all meta- 
phorically hurled at Alice’s head. And if they 
did not crush, they undoubtedly discouraged 
her ; for Alice was by no means indifferent to 
such things. Like most Horsingham people, 
she had a keen eye to the main chance, and a 
very thorough respect for property. 

We had some difficulty in getting away from 
Alice in time to keep our appointment ; for she 
had heard of the ball at Woolling, and begged 
to be told what I had worn, and what mother 
had worn, and what all the other ladies had 
worn, and interrupted my description with so 
many ejaculations of admiration, and so many 
running comments in her own loquacious man- 
ner — cutting away at the mourning garment 
all the while — that it became quite a long af- 
fair. 

“And our old lodger was there, I heard say 
— Mr. Lacer. He’s a pleasant-spoken chap — 
gentleman,” said Alice, correcting herself. 

“ They do say he’s going to leave the army. 
Father heard some talk about it down at the 
shop between two sporting gents as come in 
to look at a dog-cart. I think it would be a 
pity a’most ; for Mr. Lacer’s a fine figure of a 
man — may be a bit too stout for his years ; and 
he looks grand in his red coat. Have you seen 
him, Mr. Ayrlie ?” 

“No,” answered Donald, shortly. Then he 
added, with his scrupulous truthfulness, “I 
believe he passed me on horseback this morn- 
ing. I did not see his face. I don’t know 
him. Anne, I’m afraid I must ask you to 
come at once. We shall be late.” 

Alice’s blue eyes shot a keen glance on him, 
and then on me. I felt it rather than saw it. 

She detained me by a corner of my shawl 
just as we were going out, and whispered : 

“ He’s as good as gold, is Mr. Donald. You 
don’t know. Miss Anne, how high the folks 
think of him here. And as for Mr. Lacer, he 
bain’t fit to tie Mr. Donald’s shoe-string, for all 
his red coat.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Alice’s parting words, and her manner of 
saying them, vexed me — none the less that I 
knew they were intended to have a contrary 
effect. I felt ill at ease, and Donald not being 
in a very bright humor either, we walked along 
almost in silence until we came to the house in 
Wood Street. 

My grandfather w'as up stairs, visiting his 
little patients, the servant told us, and Mrs. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


Arkwright was with him. Mr, Arkwright w'as 
in the parlor — the little dark parlor, that looked 
as gloomy as a cavern on this winter day — eat- 
ing a cheerless meal by himself. I noticed, 
though, that the cloth which covered the tray 
was specklessly white, and that the glass he 
drank from and the willow-pattern plate he ate 
from were pure and glistening. He seemed 
glad to see me, and his kindness made me feel 
doubly ashamed of my long neglect of him. 
Donald presently went up stairs to see the chil- 
dren. I noticed that the little servant had 
welcomed him as those are welcomed who in 
time of trouble or sickness bring an atmosphere 
of strength and comfort with them. Mr. Ark- 
wright’s care-worn face brightened when he saw 
Donald. When the latter had left the room 
Mr. Arkwright said : 

“We owe a great debt of gratitude to Mr. 
Ayrlie,- 1 assure you. He has been so good to 
my poor little children. My wife looks on him 
as a prodigy of medical skill, too. I dare say 
he may be. But I think she grounds her opin- 
ion on the fact of his having hunted through 
Horsiugham to find some hot-house grapes for 
jMary. Poor Mary sufiered the most of all the 
children. You should have seen the gratitude 
in her great, dark eyes when Mr. Ayrlie put a 
cool, pulpy grape to her lips. Patty naturally 
declares him to be a second .^sculapius.” And 
the poor father laughed, while the tears trem- 
bled in his eyes. “But every one has been 
good to us,” he continued — “every one. Of 
Dr. Hewson I don’t know how to speak. He 
is what you have always known him. Miss Fur- 
ness. Then there is that good creature, Alice 
Kitchen.” 

I told him that I had seen Alice, and that I 
was sorry to hear it rumored that she would 
inherit little or none of her grandfather’s prop- 
erty. 

Mr. Arkwright’s face changed in a moment. 
He looked as though he were suffering from a 
twinge of bodily pain. 

“Ah,” said he, “old Green was a hard man 
— a hard man! I — I had some transactions 
with him. I — in fact, why should I disguise 
it ? — I owed him money. It was not my fault. 
We have never been extravagant, and Patty is 
the best manager in the world. But I had 
sore need of a sum of money. Miss Furness, 
and I borrowed it of old Green. I hope — I 
think that Mr. Matthew Kitchen will be a little 
more considerate. Do you think he will be ?” 

I could not offer much comfort to Mr. Ark- 
wright. I did not know what Matthew would 
do, but I had unpleasant forebodings. 

“ But,” said he, with a sort of weak eagerness 
of manner which he showed sometimes, poor, 
sorely-tried man!— “but the sister is such a 
kindly, good creature, I am not really afraid 
that Mr. Matthew will be unreasonable. I am 
not, really!” 

It seemed to me that the world had suddenly 
grown full of troubles. On every side there 
was anxiety and struggle. I said so to my 


67 

grandfather as we were walking back toward 
Mortlands. 

“One use of our own troubles, Anne,” said 
he, “is to discipline us to feel for others. 
Children and very young persons are frequent- 
ly shallow and selfish, because they are unable 
from their own experience to imagine the suf- 
ferings of those around them.” 

“All children are not selfish, grandfather,” 
said I. “Did you ever see any thing more 
thoughtful and good than poor little Lizzie 
Arkwright ?” 

I had been up stairs before leaving Wood 
Street, and had seen the five children. Lizzie, 
Martha, and Teddy were now convalescent, but 
they had none of them yet left their chamber. 
Lizzie was dressed, and was able to move about 
and attend to the others a little. She would 
have done more than her strength justified if 
she had not been checked. When I entered 
the nursery, as the children’s sleeping-room was 
called, Lizzie was sitting on a wooden chair, 
heaped up with patchwork-covered cushions, 
so as to raise her to a sufficient height for her 
purpose, close beside Mary’s crib, patiently turn- 
ing over the leaves of a book full of gaudily 
colored pictures, to amuse the sick child’s lan- 
guid eyes. There were four small, narrow cribs 
of unpainted wood in the bare room. The four 
little girls slept here. The room w'as, fortu- 
nately, spacious and sufficiently airy. Teddy 
usually occupied a little attic, with a sloping 
roof, at the top of the house ; but since his ill- 
ness he had been brought down stairs to a little 
strip of a room next to his sisters’, and wLicli 
W'as absolutely unfurnished save for his tiny 
bed. Mrs. Arkw'right and Donald w'ere with 
Teddy wdien I entered the nursery. Grand- 
father W'as standing beside little Jane’s crib, 
contemplating its small occupant with a benev- 
olent face. 

“ How is Jane ?” said I, addressing my grand- 
father. 

“Oh, she’ll do all right. She’s getting on 
famously. Jane is a great deal better.” 

Jane slowly turned her bright, attentive eyes, 
which she had kept fixed on grandfather while 
he W'as speaking, toward me, and giving the 
oddest little ghost of one of her old emphatic 
nods — for Jane was too weak to make a vigor- 
ous gesture — observed, corroboratively, “ ’Es ; 
Dane is a gate deal better.” 

I kissed the little creature, and she received 
my caress very graciously. They told me she 
had spoken of me and asked for me more than 
once. But she made no extravagant demon- 
strations of joy at seeing me ; only she curled 
her wasted mite of a hand round my forefin- 
ger, and held me near her as long as I remained 
in the room. 

“Miss Furness!” called out Mary, in her 
contralto tones, now very feeble and a little 
hoarse, “ look at the pictures I ain’t they beau- 
tiful? Blue Beard and Cinner — Cinnerella, 
and ever so many! Dr. Hew'son gave it to 
me.” 


G8 


ANNE FURNESS. 


“ Oh, it is beautiful, Mary ! all the colors of 
the rainbow ! Dr. Hewson is very good, is he 
not?” 

There was a chorus of, “Oh yes! that he 
is!” and Teddy, hearing this through the half- 
open door of his room, joined in it with an en- 
thusiastic “ Hooray ! He says I’m to have meat 
to-morrow ! Hoo-ra-a-ay ! ” 

Little Jane could not shout, but, not to be 
behindhand, she raised her head, and softly 
rubbed her cheek against the lappet of “Dr. 
Hewson’s” rough great-coat, as he stood by the 
side of her crib. There was something in the 
innocent, confiding, baby action which brought 
the tears to my eyes. As I turned my head I 
saw Mrs. Arkwright and Donald standing side 
by side, in the doorway of Teddy’s room, and 
looking on at the little scene. 

I do not know whether a great painter could 
have rendered the extraordinary blending of 
feelings which was expressed in Mrs. Ark- 
wright’s face. There was gratitude to my 
grandfather, and trust in him, undoubtedly. 
And there was love for her children, and a 
land of compassion for their sickness which 
was almost more fierce than tender, if I may 
say what sounds so strange. And there was 
the old yearning, grudging look, as though she 
were pained not to be all to the little ones, and 
were wrestling with her jealousy of those who 
were kind to them. 

It lasted but an instant. She came forward 
and spoke to me much in her usual manner. 
And after my grandfather and Donald had as- 
sured her that the children were going on per- 
fectly well, and the latter had promised to look 
in again that evening, we took our leave, and 
walked up the long High Street to Mortlands. 
And then it was that I told grandfather how it 
seemed to me that the world had suddenly 
grown full of troubles. 

I would not prolong my stay at Mortlands 
beyond the next morning. I was very anxious 
to get home, and to talk of all I had heard of 
father’s prospects with my mother. Grand- 
father said he would drive me to Water-Eard- 
ley himself. We set out immediately after an 
early breakfast. During the first part of our 
drive grandfather spoke chiefly of Donald. He 
praised him warmly, and said he showed great 
aptitude for his profession, as well as steady de- 
termination to study it. There was a large 
hospital at Horsingham, and grandfather said he 
thought this establishment would afford Donald 
opportunities of learning a great deal before it 
would be necessary for him to go to London. 
Suddenly, in the midst of this discourse, he 
asked, “How old are you, Anne?” 

“Twenty, grandfather.” 

“H’m! You’re very much of a child in 
some things for, twenty. Ha ! When is your 
birthday?” 

“ On the 17th of September.” 

“You will be twenty-one — of age, that is — on 
the 17th of next September?” 

“Yes.” 


“ I wish to Heaven we may induce your fa- 
ther to make a move from this place before the 
autumn.” 

After that grandfather fell into a musing 
silence, which lasted until we reached the gate 
at Water-Eardley. 

Father was still in his room. We found mo- 
ther tying up some geraniums in the window 
of the little morning-room. She was overjoyed 
to see her father, and we three had an earnest 
talk together. 

“ You’ve told Anne, then ?” said my mother. 

I understood well enough why she had pre- 
ferred that he should tell me of their project 
rather than telling it me herself. She shrank 
from uttering any word that might seem to re- 
flect on her husband. And yet, in some way, 
it was necessary that I should be made acquaint- 
ed with the state of affairs. She was relieved 
to find that I knew it. 

Grandfather asked her if she had said any 
thing to George about it lately, and she an- 
swered yes ; and that he had really seemed to 
contemplate cutting himself loose from all the 
entanglements and temptations that bound him 
to Horsingham. 

“ Things must be ver^ bad with him, to make 
him listen to, the scheme,” said my grandfi\ther, 
thoughtfully. 

Mother fired up, or, I might say, flickered 
up, for her wrath was very brief. “Poor dear 
George has been very unfortunate,” she said. 
“It is not for jne to blame him, at all events, 
for he has been led on and on from one loss to 
another in the hope of making money for me 
and Anne.” 

“Well, well, Lucy,” said my grandfather, 
mildly, “if we can but convince him that gam- 
bling can do no good to any human creature, 
and that to go on in the hope of retrieving what 
he has lost is to follow the most treacherous will- 
o’-the-wisp that ever tempted men into bogs and 
quagmires, we may confess that good has come 
out of that evil.” 

He went on to urge that the change could 
not be made too soon; that delay 'must be un- 
wise, and might be fatal ; and that he thought 
George should take some preliminary step as to 
the giving up of the house and farm at once. 
Then by degrees he drew from mother the con- 
fession that George had promised to take some 
decisive measures next autumn. But that lie 
had declared he must try to battle on until aft- 
er the month of September. And that after 
that the sacrifice might not be necessary at 
all. 

Grandfitther put his hands to his head and 
gave a half-suppressed groan on hearing this. 
“Fatal, fatal, fatal!” he exclaimed. “Just 
what I feared. He has some scheme in his 
head that is to make his fortune, of course. 
Let him procrastinate ! Give him time ! Yes, 
yes ; and at the end of the autumn, instead of 
being ankle-deep in the bog, he will be knee- 
deep, if not over head and ears !” 

“My poor George!” said mother, with a 


ANXE FURNESS. 


69 


trembling lip and streaming eyes. “It is not 
tor himself. He wants nothing for himself!” 

“ He wants what the drunkard wants, who 
takes brandy that he knows to be poison just as 
well as the whole College of Physicians.” 

“ Oh, father, how can you speak so harshly? 
I can not hear such things said of George. I 
ou()ht not.” * 

It was a painful scene. All my reason and 
my conscience were on grandfather’s side. But 
I felt my heart full of yearning compassion for 
my mother. I went to her, and took her in 
my arms, and laid her head on my shoulder. 
“Don’t cry, mother,” I said. “We will stay 
together, come what will, and help each other.” 

“ I have done more harm than good by com- 
ing, it seems,” said grandfather, looking at us 
sadly. But he had not done more harm than 
good. 

That evening, when he was gone away, and 
afterward during many quiet hours, mother and 
I talked, and planned, and hoped, and gradu- 
ally familiarized ourselves with the thought of 
leaving Water-Eardley. And I thought that 
if we thus became accustomed to the notion of 
dwelling on it, father would likewise grow used 
to it by hearing mother speak of it in her gentle, 
pleasant way, and with the woman’s tact — made 
fine and keen by her great love — that taught 
her to cease from speaking when she perceived 
that her words became importunate. 

Father, meanwhile, grew more affectionate 
in his manner; more considerate, more kind, 
more like his old self than I had seen him for 
many a day. Sometimes, when he looked at 
his wife’s pale, worn, sweet face, his own would 
wear an expression of sorrowful tenderness, 
such as touched my very heart. But I knew 
that it was he w’ho had traced lines upon my 
mother’s anxious forehead, and prematurely 
robbed her fair skin of its healthy bloom. I 
had a w'ay of contemplating my own emotions as 
though from a superior and exterior point of 
view, and I knew all this, and in a manner re- 
sented it, even while I was yielding to a tear- 
. ful sympathy with my father, which, after all, 
did not go mucli deeper than a mere physical 
affliction of my nerves. 

I^b'clieve that there w'ere times when my fa- 
ther deceived himself into a generous enthusi- 
asm that fancied itself ready for self-sacrifice. 
He would talk even before me sometimes of his 
errors and his faults, and of the hope he had in 
the future. And he would say that poverty 
did not frighten him ; if he could but be free 
from debt he should be content, only for his 
Lucy. And mother w'ould take his hand and 
kiss it, and tell him that she feared nothing so 
that they were spared to each other ; and would 
build pretty castles in the air, to be inhabited 
by him and her and me, wdiicli were like the 
edifices in a fairy story, with the gold and dia- 
monds and precious stones left out. Oh me ! 
t oh me ! How it all comes back again, the 
*ghost of that time! With the ghosts of the 
he^artaefies that were real, and the hopes that 


that superior and exterior me knew to be false ! 
And the ghost of — not of a love, but the fancy 
of a love waited on by little fluttering fears and 
vanities — slight, light, frivolous little vanities 
that were really as afraid of the clear eyes of 
the contemplative conscience in me as a flock 
of hurrying, purposeless, dizzy bats would be of 
the sun at noontide. 

And yet that was all a part of the life that I 
have lived. And even the gauzy-winged vani- 
ties have been touched with a grave twilight, 
for they have become “portions and parcels of 
the dreadful past.” 

Dreadful in its unchangeableness — in its ir- 
revocableness ; but yet not without a strange, 
sweet pathos to look back upon. For it seems 
to me sometimes that the past, like the long 
crystal streak above an autumn sunset, gives a 
solemn beauty to trivial things that stand re- 
vealed against its ineffable depths, as the little 
still twigs and leaflets of a tangled hedge show 
with a carven clearness upon the evening light. 

There seemed to come a pause in our lives, 
like the lull on a tempestuous night when the 
wind ceases wearily for a while, and a smooth 
flood of silence rushes into one’s ears and fills 
one’s brain. 

Gervase Lacer was often with us. jVIany an 
evening we sat around the fire, we four ; some- 
times talking, often silent. Dreaming, think- 
ing, planning — what different dreams, thoughts, 
and plans ! And thus the winter wore away, 
and the early spring, and the summer-time was 
at hand. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

From the night of the famous ball there had 
been a feud between Sam Cudberry and his 
sister, and Mr. Lacer was the subject of it. 
Clementina was disposed to side with her broth- 
er, but Tilly and Henny were too strong for her. 
She had been used to submit to Tilly on certain 
points all her life, and the time for rebellion had 
not yet arrived — perhaps never would arrive. 

Miss Cudberry announced to every one, 
whether it concerned them to know it or not, 
that Mr. Lacer was a loAV-bred, impertinent 
coxcomb. She was not troubled by any sense 
of shame at proclaiming her sudden change of 
opinion about him, nor did she hesitate to avow 
the cause of it. It was that he had failed to 
show her “ proper attention at her ball.” That 
was what she said, and, so far as it went, it was 
true. But there was another reason for her 
indignation and animosity ; to wit, that Mr. 
Lacer had danced with me, and talked with me, 
and paid more attention to me in various ways 
than Miss Cudberry at all approved of. 

“That’s not what pa goes to the expense of 
a ball for!” exclaimed Tilly, with much bitter- 
ness. “Not for the purpose of having Anne 
Furness’s head turned with conceit and vanity by 
officers! Though Mr. Lacer is but an ensign, 
he might know how to behave himself! But I 


70 


ANNE FUENESS. 


hear more about him than he perhaps guesses. 
And ^/his father wasn’t a tavern-keeper at Ep- 
som, I stand open to correction, that’s all ! It 
is something new, I fancy, for Miss Cudberry 
of Woolling to be passed over in her own house 
by bar-men and pot-boys.” All this and more 
was repeated to us by Sam Cudberry. He was 
resolved not to give up “ his friend, ” as he called 
Mr. Lacer. At the same time, it was not easy 
to receive any guest at Woolling in Tilly’s de- 
spite. Sam, therefore, honored Water-Eardley 
with his presence a good deal at this time. “ I 
can see Lacer more comfortably here than at 
Woolling. And George gives a fellow a very 
decent glass of wine,” said our cousin, with de- 
lightful frankness. 

I wondered that he did not prefer seeing Mr. 
Lacer at Brookfield, which was nearer to his 
own house than Water-Eardley. But Sam did 
not leave me long in perplexity on this point. 
It appeared from his statement that Mr. Lacer’s 
brother officers did not receive Sam with the 
courtesy and cordiality due to a Cudberry of 
Woolling. Sam had dined at the mess once, 
but pronounced the whole thing “ deadly slow,” 

and the officers of the gallant th a set of 

beastly, stuck-up fools. He shouldn’t go there 
any more. S. Cudberry, Junior, of Woolling, 
didn’t need to go a-begging for a shabby dinner 
and a bottle of cheap wine. He knew where it 
came from, and what it cost ! 

I marveled greatly what these gentlemen 
could have said or done to make it so plain 
even to Sam’s apprehension that his company 
was not welcome ; and, further, to induce him 
to abstain from besto^ying it on them whether 
they liked it or not. On my hinting this to 
Mr. Lacer he told me, with a half-smiling, half- 
vexed expression of countenance, that Sam had 
drunk so much and talked so much, on the oc- 
casion of his dining at mess, as to have given 
offense to several of the men present. I shud- 
dered to think what Sam might be, with his 
weak brain heated by wine, and his tongue 
loosened, and his spirits raised with the no- 
tion of being in good company ! 

“You know, your cousin is peculiar in his 
manner, to say the least of it,” observed Mr. 
Lacer. 

“ How dreadful for you I exclaimed. “ He 
went as your guest, and you must have been 
greatly annoyed and mortified. But how did 
you contrive to make Sam understand that — 
that — you could never introduce him among 
your friends again ?” 

“Well, I — I simply told him so,” said Mr. 
Lacer, with a kind of despairing gesture, which 
suggested to my mind how many tentatives at 
conveying the truth with some delicacy must 
have been tried and failed before he had re- 
course to that strong measure. 

“ Of course it was a most unpleasant thing to 
do,” he proceeded. “But Cudberry is so — so 
odd, so utterly unlike other people, that I had 
to come to that, and I managed it somehow. 
At first he said that if he had said any thing 


unpleasant to any of the fellows he wasn’t 
above calling on them and apologizing. He 
supposed he had had a glass too much. Very 
sorry. Couldn’t be helped. He would make 
it all square! But I knew that would never 
do. And, fortunately, the next day he met the 
colonel in the streets of Brookfield, who cut him 
dead. So he turned round, and was very wroth, 
and declared they were a set of snobs, and he 
would never go near them again.” 

And in this manner it came to pass that Sam 
Cudberry was often at Water-Eardley in the 
bright summer weather. He stuck to Mr. 
Lacer like a leech. Father neither encour- 
aged nor discouraged him, but just endured 
his presence with the apathetic tolerance which 
had grown upon him lately. Mr. Lacer’s in- 
dulgence for Sam frequently surprised me. He 
endured him not only with patience, but with 
good-humor ; and Sam veiy frequently passed 
the bounds of civility when he was disposed to 
be witty and humorous. 

One day when Sam had been talking to me 
of Mr. Lacer after the fashion of his family — 
partly patronizing, as being the friend of a Cud- 
berry of Woolling, and partly contemptuous, as 
being a stranger outside the charmed circle of 
the Cudberry connection, and as being, more- 
over, absent at the moment — I was moved to 
say to him with some heat, “You ought to be 
very grateful to Mr. Lacer, I think, Sam. He 
is very kind and good-natured to you always, 
and you are not always as courteous to him as 
you might be !” 

Sam looked at me fixedly, grinned slowly, 
letting his mouth expand by degrees, winked, 
and then said, “Why, you don’t suppose I’m 
such a flat as to think it’s all for my sweet sake, 
do you ?” 

A conscious feeling kept me silent, and I felt 
my face grow hot and red. Sam, however, 
went on to say something that I did not at all 
expect. 

“ Lacer knows that I ain’t as green as grass. 
He’s found out that I’m up to a thing or two ; 
keep my eyes open, and move with the times. 
My governor’s a little too much of the old 
school — he wasn’t born yesterday, as he says. 

I don’t tell him every thing. No good strok- 
ing him the wrong way; but fair play’s a jewel, 
you know. ‘Honor among thieves,’ eh? As 
long as Lacer don’t split on me, I don’t split on 
him ; so there’s no particular gratitude in the 
case, Miss Anne.” 

Sam concluded with a prolonged chuckle, and 
many nods and winks. 

I was a good deal annoyed by all this. That 
Sam should desire to keep many of his actions 
secret from his father did not at all surprise me. 
He was almost entirely dependent on Uncle 
Cudberry during his life, and could not afford to 
displease him. All this he had doubtless been 
obliging enough to confide to Mr. Lacer^ — or 
part of it ; for Sam had a queer, cunning se- 
cretiveness of character, which seemed never to 
abandon him even in his most boisterous and 


ANNE FURNESS. 


71 


convivial moments. But what Mr. Lacer could 
have confided to Sam that should give the lat- 
ter any power over him I was at a loss to con- 
jecture. 

Finally, I came to the conclusion that it w'as 
very foolish to attach any importance to Sam 
Cudberry’s utterances. But its being foolish 
did not prevent me from dwelling on his words 
in my own mind. 

Suddenly, one day, I remembered what Alice 
Kitchen had said of the rumor that Mr. Lacer 
was about to leave the army. Could it be true ? 
And if so, was that what Sam was alluding to ? 
And yet why keep it secret ? Mr. Lacer was 
on such intimate terms with my father that I 
thought he would be sure to know the truth, 
and I asked him: “Father, do you know 
whether Mr. Lacer means to leave the army ?” 

“Did he say any thing to you about it?” 
said my father, asking a counter-question. 

“Tome? Oh no! But I heard it rumored.” 

“Yes ; I believe it is true. He will sell out 
if he can.” 

“I wonder why?” 

“ He isn’t happy in his regiment ; his colonel 
is a stiff, puritanical, canting old fellow, and he 
makes it unpleasant for him.” 

“But,” said I, after a long pause, during 
which my father, who wms smoking an after- 
dinner cigar in the garden, pulled out a queer 
little pocket-book with clasps, and began mak- 
ing figures on it with a pencil — “but, father, 
could he not exchange into another regiment, 
instead of leaving the army altogether?” 

“ One thousand to twenty-five, or say half a 
point less — eh ? Oh, don’t bother me, Anne ; 
there’s a good girl ! Yes ; I don’t know. I 
suppose he’s sick of the service.” , 

It was not very long after this that Mr. Lacer 
came into mother’s sitting-room with a news- 
paper in his hand. “There,” said he, “Mrs. 
Furness, is my order of release.” 

He gave her the Gazette, and she read in it, 
and I read over her shoulder, that Ensign Ger- 
vase Lacer was permitted to retire by the sale 
of his commission. 

“You do not seem much surprised,” said he, 
looking first at mother and then at me. We told 
him that we had been prepared for this news 
for some time ; but that, as he had kept his own 
counsel so closely, we had not ventured to speak 
of it to him. Even now mother refrained from 
asking him any questions. He presently went 
out into the garden to get her some flowers she 
wanted to fill a vase with that stood on the little 
table near the window. The window was wide 
open, and Mr. Lacer, coming back with the 
flowers in his hand, leaned with both elbows 
on the sill, and began to speak of himself and 
his prospects. I was working near the window, 
my mother arranging her nosegay. The sun- 
shine slanted into the room ; the lowing of cattle 
came up from a distant field ; every thing seem- 
ed still and peaceful ; and Mr. Lacer stood 
there, at the open window, like a portrait in its 
frame, and spoke in a low voice, dropping out 


almost unconnected sentences one after the 
other, more as if he were talking to himself 
than to us. 

“I should have told you long ago, Mrs. Fur- 
ness. You have been so good to me, and I 
have such a regard for you, that I should have 
felt it right to tell you, if I had told any one ; 
but I kept my own counsel, because — because I 
was not sure that I should succeed. It has 
been a troublesome matter in some ways. Two 
years ago — a year ago — I should not have cared 
about going to India, or the Cape, or any where 
else ; they might have sent me to Sierra Leone 
for all I should have cared about the matter then. 
Now I find the idea of being ordered abroad 
very terrible. But I couldn’t stay at home just 
for wishing it. I was obliged to try and see 
some chance before me, if I remained in En- 
gland and left the army, of getting bread and 
cheese. I’m not a rich man, you know, Mrs. 
Furness, though I’m the only son of a wealthy 
father. Some day, I suppose, I shall be well 
provided for. Let Mrs. Lacer grasp as she will, 
she can hardly rob me of all my inheritance, 
and she has no children of her own. Well, I 
thought I saw a chance — a hope ; I worked it 
all out by myself. Yesterday I wrote to my fa- 
ther, to tell him that the business is concluded. 
So it is of no use his remonstrating.” 

“ Oh, I hope,” said mother, and then stopped 
and raised her soft eyes to the young man’s face. 
His eyes were cast down, and he was picking a 
crimson flower to pieces, petal by petal, as he 
still leaned with his arms on the window-sill. 
“My dear Mr. Lacer,” mother proceeded, 
“ since you speak so openly to me, you won’t 
mind my saying that I hope you have not act- 
ed rashly in resigning your commission. Will 
your father approve of your having done so? 
Of course I do not pretend to dictate to you. 
You must know your own affairs best. Only 
I do hope you have well considered the mat- 
ter.” 

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Lacer, rather slowly, 
and in an absent manner. “Yes, yes, I could 
not do otherwise.” 

“Mrs. and Miss Cudberry of Woolling,” an- 
nounced the maid-servant, opening the door of 
the sitting-room at this moment. 

I believe we all looked scared ; I am sure I 
felt so. Mr. Lacer started and took his elbows 
from the window-sill, as Mrs. and Miss Cud- 
berry rustled into the room. 

The door precisely faced the open window ; 
so that the first object which Tilly beheld, as 
she bounced in, a pace behind her mother, was 
Mr. Lacer’s head and shoulders, framed, as I 
have said, in the window opposite. Mr. Lacer 
took his hat off. Tilly made a bow, the like 
of which, I- should think, had never been seen 
by him ; for he stared in genuine astonishment. 
It was a writhing movement of her whole body, 
accompanied by a rapid semicircular sweep of 
her head, which she finally turned away from 
him over her shoulder. When Mrs. Cudberry 
saw Mr. Lacer, which she did the moment aft- 


72 


ANNE FURNESS. 


er having shaken hands with my mother, she 
made a hesitating movement, as though she 
would have gone to the window and shaken 
liands with him, but Tilly undisguisedly pulled 
her sleeve, and detained her. 

‘‘ I think I’ll go in search of your father. Miss 
Furness,” said Mr. Lacer to me. (I was seated 
close to the window, as I have said, and I had 
not left it, although I rose when Aunt Cud- 
berry came into the room.) “He said he would 
have a stroll and a cigar with me in the river- 
side meadows by-and-by.” Then he added 
rapidly, speaking almost in a whisper, “What 
on earth is the matter with Miss Cudberry of 
Woolling? She all but cut me ! What have 
I done?” 

I shook my head, and made a little sign 
that I could not speak just then ; and he smiled, 
slightly shrugged his shoulders, and walked 
away down the garden path, having first be- 
stowed on Miss Cudberry a most elaborate and 
exaggerated bow, of which she took no no- 
tice. 

“So you’ve got him here, my dear!” said 
Aunt Cudberry, seating herself all aslant in 
an arm-chair, and squeezing her face into a 
strange complicated grimace. 

“ Got him here ?” repeated my mother, inter- 
rogatively. 

“ Got that Mr. Lacer, my dear. Ah, well, 
I don’t know, I’m sure ! I hear all sort of 
things; but I sometimes don’t know what to 
think — really and truly I don't!” 

That Aunt Cudberry did not know what to 
think on many subjects was not so astonishing 
a statement as she appeared to deem it was. 
My mother made no reply ; and Tilly, w^ho had 
been talking to me in a more sharp and dicta- 
torial manner than usual, broke in with an 
animated tirade against Mr. Lacer. She was 
very voluble, and very bitter. My mother kept 
casting imploring glances at me to bespeak my 
forbearance. I said no word ; neither did Mrs. 
Cudberry nor my mother ; so Tilly talked un- 
interruptedly until she was tired. 

“Tilly is a little severe, poor thing!” said 
Aunt Cudberry, deprecatingly, when her daugh- 
ter paused. 

“Now, ma !” cried Tilly, in a warning voice. 
“ None of that, ma ! No shifting it all on me, 
Mrs. Cudberry, if you please! You know I 
speak the family feeling, and the family opin- 
ion. And if you like to see your onlj’- son en- 
ticed on to his ruin, pa doesn’t, and my sis- 
ters don’t, and I don’t. So pray say nothing 
about severity, ma.” 

This was a new turn ; and I could not re- 
frain from asking her what she meant by Mrs. 
Cudberry seeing her “only son enticed to 
ruin.” Tilly satisfied my curiosity with the 
greatest alacrity. Her statement, given with 
much energy and superfluous expenditure of 
words, amounted to this : Sam Cudberry had 
become very intimate with Mr. Lacer. It was 
supposed that Sam had entered into some rac- 
ing speculations — on a small scale for the pres- 


ent, it was true, but dangerous as a beginning 
of gambling. As Sam had never exhibited any 
taste of the kind before, it must be attributed to 
the influence of his new friend. Mr. Lacer was 
known to frequent race-courses. Sam and he 
were often together. They had been seen driv- 
ing together on mysterious expeditions, no one 

knew whither, in the neighborhood of W , 

the county town. Mr. Lacer was not in good 
odor with his brother officers. He owed mon- 
ey in Brookfield, and his father w'as not a gen- 
tleman, but a taverq-keeper. 

“ How, in the name of wonder, did you glean 
all this gossip?” asked my mother, looking 
quite bewildered ; for, as I have said, I give 
only a compressed and unadorned version of 
Tilly’s copious discourse, enriched with num- 
berless circumstantial trivialities. 

“I made it my business to pick up all the 
information I could about the person Lacer,” 
rejoined Tilly, unblushingly. “He has been 
spied upon more than he thinks for. And so 
has Sam. Sam is close and cunning, but he 
don’t hoodwink Miss Cudberry. I shall teach 
him not to trample on his own family.” 

Finally, she brought out as a climax the in- 
formation that Mr. Lacer had been “turned 
out of the army.” 

“ My dear Tilly,” said my mother, gently, 
“ I am glad to be able to assure you that you 
are mistaken there.” 

“Not a bit of it, Mrs. George! I supposed 
he hadn’t told you, but it’s true for all that !” 

In vain we tried to explain to her that there 
was no disgrace in an oflficer selling his com- 
mission. She shook her head obdurately. 
“Ah, it’s all very well,” she observed ; “ but he 
only retired in time to prevent being turned 
out, if he wasn’t turned out. I have warned 
you, Mrs. George. I thought it my duty to 
warn you. And especially to warn Anne. I 
wish I could have seen my cousin George. I 
should have begged him as a favor not to en- 
courage Sam here. I know what he comes 
for. It is to meet that man. I believe he’s a 
black-ball — no ; what do they call it ? — a black- 
leg ! As to my cousin George himself — ” 

“Po-o-or George!” murmured Mrs. Cud- 
berry. 

“It’s of no use saying any thing on that 
score !” 

Mrs. Cudberry, I suppose, was able to read 
the expression of my mother’s face better than 
her daughter was. Or perhaps she had some 
sympathy with her nephew’s wife. She was 
not by nature nearly so hard and unfeeling as 
Tilly. At all events, she checked Miss Cud- 
berry’s further -utterances decisively, by rising 
to go away. For with Tilly, as with many 
other people, the announcement that it was 
“no use saying any thing” on this or that sub- 
ject, was the pretty sure prelude to her talking 
about it with peculiar loquacity. 

When they were gone at last, mother sat 
back wearily in her chair, and was silent for 
some time. After a prolonged pause she said : 


73 


ANNE FURNESS. 


“ Oh me, how glad I should be if it were over, 
and we were away out of all this talk and tur- 
moil ! I hope it is not selfish to wish it. But 
I do believe your dear father would be happier 
— really happier — even in quite poverty, pro- 
vided we could have a little peace, and look the 
world in the face.” 

That evening Sam Cudberry came as usual. 
We had told my father of Tilly’s words, but he 
answered shortly and sharply that we might 
find something better to do than to repeat such 
nonsense ; that Sam was his own master ; and 
that he (father) would receive what guests he 
chose without asking for the approval or caring 
for the disapproval of any one. 

And so things continued as they were for 
some time longer. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

It proved to be quite true that old Mr. Green 
had left all his property to his grandson Mat- 
thew. For once gossip and rumor had been 
correct as to the main fact, although the amount 
of the old coach-maker’s wealth had been ex- 
aggerated in some instances, and in others un- 
derstated. The truth was that heleft behind him 
a sum sufficient to have enabled Matthew Kitch- 
en to live in comfort for the rest of his days with- 
out working, had lie been so minded, besides the 
“good-will” of the coach-making business, and a 
valuable stock in trade. It soon appeared, how- 
ever, that Matthew’s greed or ambition was not 
yet satisfied. He showed no symptoms of giv- 
ing up business. On the contraiy, he had the 
work-shops and all the premises enlarged, and 
was solicitous for new orders. He removed 
with his family to a smart house, newly fur- 
nished in the gaudiest style Mrs. Matthew 
Kitchen could achieve, and bade fair to be- 
come one of the most prosperous among his 
fellow-townsmen. 

Neither Alice nor her father inherited a 
farthing. “Father’s foreman. Miss Anne,” 
said Alice to me. “ And a good workman he 
is, as Mat knows. And Mat kindly keeps him 
on ; and has even raised his wage ten shillings 
a week. It’s wonderful kind of Mat, isn’t it ?” 
Then, with a sudden change of manner : “ Why, 
you don’t suppose he’d have done that much 
but for father saying — and it was true enough 
too — that he could get more money from Hob- 
son’s, of Brookfield, and threatening to go. I 
put father up to it. He was that cast down 
and disappointed at the will, as he’d have given 
up altogether if I’d have let him. But no. 
Mat, he says it’s very sinful to bear a grudge 
against the dead on account of a bit of filthy 
lucre. And he’s always a-throwing Scripture 
texts in your teeth. So I says to father, now 
it’s no good our cutting off our noses to spite 
our faces, that’s certain sure. But, again, 
where’s the need to stand and be kicked ? We 
bear no grudge. Well and good. But you 
aren’t being paid a foreman’s wage, and that 


you know, father. And though you might 
work for poor pay for Grandfiither Green, that’s 
no reason you should do the same for Mat. So 
you just go and say, ‘ The laborer is worthy of 
his hire,’ and tell him you must have a rise. 
Don’t you let Mat draw you into arguing, but 
stick to your text — he’s fond enough of texts — 
and says you, ‘ The laborer is worthy of his 
hire, and Hobson’s is Avilling to give it !’ ” 

I heard afterward that Selina complained 
that her husband’s father was “so grasping,” 
and that Matthew had enough to do to satisfy 
old Kitchen and Alice, who fancied that be- 
cause they had been left out of the will, poor 
Matthew was bound to find them in the fat of 
the land. And she, also, was in the habit of 
drawing an instructive moral from the family 
history ; demanding of her hearers what could 
they expect when old Kitchen and Alice had 
flown in the face of Providence by having a 
lodger who went to the races, and moreover 
made unto themselves friends of the mammon 
of unrighteousness ; by which phrase (unintel- 
ligible to Selina’s comprehension, and therefore 
made to do duty whenever she wished to be 
impressive) Mrs. Matthew Kitchen intended to 
allude to Alice’s intimacy in Mr. Arkwright’s 
poverty-stricken home, and her kindness to his 
sick little children. 

I had an unexpected opportunity of hearing 
Mrs. Matthew’s sentiments from her own lips, 
for one day my father came into the little sit- 
ting-room at home, and informed my mother 
and myself that he wished us to “ call on young 
Kitchen’s wife.” 

“To — call — on — Selina?” repeated my mo- 
ther, as though she could scarcely believe her 
ears. Father seized the opportunity to be hot 
and out of humor. He was ashamed of the 
request he was making, and took refuge in an- 
ger. He had never told mother of his money 
transactions with old Green ; and the longer he 
delayed the reA'elation the more difficult it be- 
came. She was thoroughly perplexed and 
startled ; and when father had dashed out of 
the room in a fit of temper — more than three- 
quarters feigned — she followed him hastily, to 
hide her tears from me, as I too well knew. 

Before she could be induced to pay the visit, 
however, it must have been necessary to ac- 
quaint her with my father’s motives for desiring 
it, or, at all events, to give her some strong reason 
for his extraordinary request. My mother’s feel- 
ings were wrung, and her fortitude sorely tried 
by it. Does the reader despise her therefore ? 
For my part, although the sacrifice was, for va- 
rious reasons of temperament and education, a 
much smaller one to me than to her, I could not 
but admire and pity her in this circumstance. 
For such efforts there is no stimulus of excite- 
ment, no sense of the heroic, no sympathetic 
appreciation, to lighten their dead weight of 
mean commonplace. 

Poor mother! Her life had latterly been 
largely made up of the like flat and depressing 
fulfillments of irksome duty. For myself, I had 


74 


ANNE FURNESS. 


no belief in the efficacy of the step my father 
had bidden us take. Tliat Matthew Kitchen’s 
pride would be flattered by it I did not doubt. 
But if my father supposed that any such piece 
of flattery would avail to loosen Mat’s tight grip 
of his debtor, or to coax him into patience for 
a day longer than patience fully suited his con- 
venience, my father was, I was persuaded, fa- 
tally mistaken. However, it was not my part 
to add to mother’s distress by hinting this opin- 
ion to her, and I, of course, refrained from dis- 
couraging her. 

We paid our visit, and passed twenty soul- 
depressing minutes in Matthew Kitchen’s gaud- 
ily furnished parlor, that smelled like an up- 
holsterer’s shop, and looked like a room in a 
child’s baby-house seen through a magnifying 
glass. . There was the same incongruity of col- 
or, the same varnished brightness and air of un- 
substantial fragility Avhich one observes in a 
box of toys. 

And there sat Selina, in uncompromising 
flesh and blood, looking more than ordinarily 
heavy and massive by contrast with her sur- 
roundings. Selina was troubled by no bashful 
misgivings. She received her former mistress 
with perfect self-satisfaction. It was my mo- 
ther who was nervous and anxious, and con- 
scious of being in a false position. 

“ How is Alice ?” I asked, in a hopeless 
pause, which mother seemed incapable of break- 
ing. I had not inquired for Selina’s husband 
or child, feeling, in truth, no interest in either, 
and being determined to affect none. It was, 

T grant, a childish way of indemnifying myself 
for my enforced visit, and, as a means of pierc- 
ing Selina’s thick wrapping of phlegmatic self- 
complacency, utterly ineffectual. 

“Oh, Alice is very well. She is always 
strong, it seems to me. But me and Alice 
ain’t such friends as might be, you know. Al- 
ice has took it amiss poor dear grandfather’s 
leaving his money as he did.” 

“I think it natural she should be disappoint- 
ed. But Alice seems to me to bear her lot 
with wonderful cheerfulness and good temper.” 

“Of course you don’t see the matter in a 
sperritule light,” rejoined Selina, coolly. 

I was not quite childish enough to undo all 
that our visit had been meant to do by any 
sharpness of retort. Little as I believed in the 
usefulness of the effort that poor mother had 
been urged to make, I understood very well that 
it did not become me to mar all hope of a good 
result by winding up our visit in a quarrel with 
Selina. I held my peace, therefore, and Mrs. 
Matthew Kitchen proceeded to pour forth in a 
steady, equable, sluggish stream, a great many 
complaints of her sister-in-law’s conduct — chieff 
ly referable to a lack of sperrituality. Alice’s 
acquaintance with the Arkwrights was animad- 
verted on, as though it had been openly dis- 
graceful to the family of the Kitchens. Pres- 
ently the true reason for this bitterness came 
out. Selina had too little conception of the ex- 
istence of high thoughts or sentiments to en- 


deavor to gloze over her own groveling motives. 
It is true that she had a few cant phrases of re- 
ligion on her lips, but they were almost utterly 
meaningless to her, and she had not the re- 
motest notion of making them a rule of life. 

It appeared that Selina had been moved by a 
social jealousy of her sister-in-law’s new ac- 
quaintance to make some advances to Mrs. 
Arkwright, which had signally failed. The ex- 
act particulars of the failure I never learned. 
But it was not difficult to conceive that Mrs. 
Arkwright’s uncompromising and bitter sincer- 
ity should not have smoothed itself to please 
Mrs. Mat Kitchen. Moreover, Mrs. Arkwright 
was proud for her husband, and would not have 
tolerated for an instant any assumption of equal- 
ity on the part of the ex-servant-maid. Hence 
Matthew and his wife hated the Arkwrights. 

I shall never forget the sensation of misery 
with which I sat in that glaring parlor, the sun 
streaming hotly in at the window, a French 
clock ticking loudly on the mantel-piece, and 
Selina brassily staring at mother and me. The 
house was so still, and the street so unfrequent- 
ed, that in the pauses of speech, and through 
the regular beat of the time-piece, I could hear 
Selina’s stays creak as she breathed, and her 
gown rustle. The whole thing was maddening. 
There was so little excuse that could have been 
put into words for the nervous irritation I was 
feeling; and yet it was terribly real. When 
mother rose to go away, I fancied that I could 
not have endured two minutes more of it, had 
she protracted our visit by even that short space 
of time. 

“Go to Mortlands,” said mother, leaning 
wearily back in the pony-chaise; and thither 
we were driven. We hardly uttered a word 
to each other on the way. What was there 
to be said? There were ludicrous elements 
enough in our call on Mrs. Matthew Kitchen ; 
but we were neither of us in a mood to relish 
them. 

Mother walked through the shady garden, 
and entered by the glass door the dining-room 
at Mortlands. The room was cool and quiet, 
and fragrant with the scent of flowers which 
was blown in from the garden by the gentlest 
of little fluttering breezes, that seemed too 
lazy and luxurious to fly far. Tib had been 
dead many a year, but there was a successor to 
Tib — one of a long line of successors — in the 
shape of a slate-colored Skye terrier, whose 
bright eyes looked out mysteriously from a mop 
of hair. “Whose bright eye looked out,” I 
should say ; for one orb was usually hopelessly 
obscured by a habit he had of holding his head 
on one side, and thus causing his thick mane to 
hang askew. Roger Bacon (that was the slate- 
colored terrier’s name) lazily arose on our en- 
trance, lazily approached mother, lazily gave 
her hand a perfunctory lick, and lazily lay down 
again on the carpet with his tail thumping a 
lazy welcome on the floor, and his uneclipsed 
eye beaming mildly. 

A thought came into my head as I looked at 


ANNE FURNESS. 


75 


him, of how unequally and incomprehensibly 
happiness is meted out to one and another in 
this world. “Oh, Roger Bacon,” said I to 
myself, “it is surely for no merit of yours that 
you are my grandfather’s dog, while your four- 
footed fellow-mortals are kicked and starved, 
so many of them! ‘Conduct makes fate,’ 
forsooth ; and does not fate make conduct ? 
and what a snappish, ill-conditioned cur might 
you not have been, O Roger, if your character 
had been formed on a discipline of ten kicks to 
one bone, and that one marrowless!” 

Grandfather’s entrance interrupted my sage 
reflections. We must stay and have tea with 
him, he said, and drive home by the light of 
the harvest-moon, now nearly at the full. 
Mother did not refuse. She had intended to 
pass the remainder of the afternoon at Mort- 
lands. I believe she took that indulgence as 
part payment for her visit to Selina ; although 
perhaps she did not plainly acknowledge this 
to herself. 

I wandered out into the dear old garden, 
leaving my mother and grandfather to talk un- 
interruptedly. They confided in me fully, I 
knew ; but I knew also that if, in the first sur- 
prise of learning to whom we had been paying 
a ceremonious visit that afternoon, grandfather 
should let fall some hot word of blame against 
his daughter’s husband, she would rather that 
no one were by to hear it. 

I wgnt out at the glass door, and then, by a 
little path in the shrubbery, to the kitchen, 
where Keturah was elbow-deep in flour, and 
Eliza and Mrs. Abram were stoning raisins. 
Mrs. Abram had a large white apron of Ke- 
turah’s covering the front of her skirt, and an- 
other tied under her chin. She reminded me 
of the glimpses I had had into a barber’s shop 
on Saturday afternoons when I used to be 
brought from school to spend my holiday in 
grandfather’s house. She was glad to see me, 
and I was glad to see her. The grotesqueness 
of her red visage, surmounting the white bib, 
did not alter that. 

When I had spoken a few words to the three 
women I went out again, and paced about the 
w'ell-known paths, and then sat down, elbow on 
knee, and chin in hand, on a sloping, grass- 
covered bank surmounted by a privet hedge, 
and basked in the sunshine, and steeped my 
soul in the peace of the past years, that seemed 
to come back to me in that garden. 

Presently Donald was at my side. I scarce- 
ly knew how he had come. I was aware of 
his footstep, and of his greeting, and of his sit- 
ting down beside me, as a sleepy brain is aware 
of outside things, struggling to hold fast by 
slumber, unwilling to stir an eyelid lest broad 
work-a-day daylight should rout the last flick- 
ering image of its dream. But it was not long 
before Donald himself slid into my reverie, or 
rather he shared it. We talked in half sen- 
tences, remembering this or that incident of 
our childish days : a hint — a broken phrase — 
sufficing to recall whole histories, as such slight 


things do suffice to people who hold a score of 
common memories. We avoided all rdlusion 
to the present : it was as though we stood on a 
little, flowery, fairy island, round which the sea 
of time was rolling and foaming, and which 
would be swallowed up anon, and we must 
take to our ships again, and say good-by to the 
green islet, and steer on our course, through 
storm and shine, as best we might. But, mean- 
while — There was a brief, sweet “ meanwhile” 
when we rested amidst grass and flov/ers and 
the trickling sound of sweet water. I dwell on 
those moments. I linger over them ; over the 
childish recollections, strengthened and made 
vivid by the sight and scent of the old herbs 
and plants (there was my friend, the flame- 
colored nasturtium, bright and hot as of yore) ; 
over the tea-drinking in the quiet dining-room ; 
over the flavor of Keturah’s dainty cakes, and 
the fragrance of the steaming tea, and the mur- 
mur of Mrs. Abram’s inarticulate voice ; over 
the drive homeward, through the moonlight, 
in which journey grandfather and Donald ac- 
companied us, purposing to walk back to 
Mortlands ; over the pleasant quiet chat, and 
not less pleasant dreamy silence, as we rolled 
smoothly along the high-road, through the reg- 
ularly recurring shadows of the great elm-trees, 
and out again into yellow moonlight spaces; 
over all these I linger, for they were our last 
moments of peace and rest to the spirit for 
many a long day. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Has the reader forgotten Dodd, my father’s 
groom in the days before Flower had brought 
his bow-legs to Water-Eardley ? (Flower, be 
'it noted, was rarely brought any whither by his 
legs, having a constitutional antipathy to walk- 
ing.) 

If the reader has forgotten Dodd, I had not 
forgotten him. My recollection had not, how- 
ever, been refreshed by seeing him very often 
since he left my father’s service. Once or 
twice he called at Mrs. Lane’s house while I 
was at school, and had left for me a present 
of apples from his own orchard. Dodd was, 
as I have said, the landlord of a way-side pub- 
lic house, and was doing well. 

He had not yet given a landlady to the hos- 
telry of the Royal Oak. I used to fancy some- 
times that he had entertained an unrequited 
attachment for Selina, who had been buxom, 
and bright-eyed, and pink-and-white enough 
to pass for quite a belle in her own class. But 
then again I recalled sundry sayings of Dodd’s, 
which seemed to contradict such a supposition, 
by reason of the clear-sighted appreciation of 
Selina’s hard and selfish nature which they 
evinced. 

Howbeit, Dodd, having attained to a mature 
age, resolved to look out for a wife. His circle 
of female acquaintance was limited, I suppose, 
or else none of the damsels in his own neigh- 


7G 


ANNE FURNESS. 


borhood happened to please him, for to whom 
should he come a-wooing but to Alice Kitchen I 
There seemed to me to be considerable fitness 
in the notion of Alice as landlady of a country 
inn. Dodd had made her acquaintance years 
ago, when she had been a very young girl with 
a crop of light brown curls and a blue bead 
necklace. But even in those days her nota- 
ble housewifery and active industry must have 
made an impression on the mind of the prudent 
Dodd. It might appear as though — old Green’s 
will having removed Alice from the category 
of eligible young women “with expectations” — 
his coming forward at this time argued consid- 
erable generosity of sentiment. But I believe 
that Dodd rightly judged Alice’s thrift, and 
stout, serviceable good temper, warranted to 
stand any amount of wear and tear, and skill 
in cooking, and general brisk handiness, to con- 
stitute a very desirable tocher in themselves ; 
wdiereas, had she been old Green’s heiress, he 
might have been shy of aspiring to her. 

I heard of this courtship from the servants 
at Mortlands, who were deep in Alice’s con- 
fidence. And the subject on old Keturah’s 
lips, oddly enough, led to her telling me some- 
thing w’hich seemed to furnish a key to the puz- 
zling advertisement I had seen in the sporting 
paper. 

Dodd, she said, declared that Mr. Sam Cud- 
berry had latterly haunted the neighborhood 
of the Royal Oak. He did not frequent that 
tavern, although he had once or twice called 
for a drauglit of ale there ; but he was constant- 
ly seen in its vicinity. Generally, as Dodd 
heard, Sam was accompanied by another gen- 
tleman — a stranger to the village. But this 
last-named person had never entered the Royal 
Oak, nor had he been seen by its landlord. 
But the gist of Dodd’s statement was the ex- 
pression of his suspicion that Mr. Sam Cudberry 
had got into a “dangerous line,” and that he 
was making stealthy visits to a certain private 
training-ground, which, Dodd affirmed, existed 
not many miles from the Royal Oak, in the 
direction of the Brookfield Road. 

“But,” said I, “what harm will it do Mr. 
Sam Cudberry to visit a private training-ground, 
even if this be true ?” 

Harm enough, according to Keturah. No 
one would have been admitted to such a place 
without either having some share in the busi- 
ness carried on there, or being very deep in 
the confidence of the people who had a share 
in it. There was nothing in the world — “un- 
less it might be coining false money,” said Ke- 
turah — that was conducted with such jealous 
secrecy as the training of a race-horse. “And,” 
said she, in conclusion, “what good can come 
to such a one as Mr. Sam Cudberry by getting 
into that sort of company ? He’s cunning, and 
close, and greedy of money, and a fool ! There’s 
cunning fools. Miss Anne, as many as simple 
ones. Even a fool can’t go far wrong so long 
as he keeps honest ; but as for IMr. Sam — ” 
A prolonged shake of the head, and compres- 


sion of the lips, significantly finished Keturah’s 
speech. 

Was, then, Sam Cudberry the advertiser who 
desired a “gentlemanlike confederate'^ with cap- 
ital? On consideration it appeared unlikely 
that he should originate such a scheme; but 
far from improbable that he had entered into 
it with some bolder or more practiced “con- 
federate,” to use the term of the advertisement. 

I do not profess to have felt much anxiety on 
Sam’s account, or much heed whether he got 
into mischief or no. I should, at another time, 
have thought of Aunt Cudberry with some sym- 
pathy ; and, in a lesser degree, of my father’s 
probable vexation on his cousin’s account ; for 
father preserved, against all sorts of discourage- 
ment, a kind of clannish family feeling — which, 
in truth, was the only Cudberry trait I knew 
in him. But as it was, my heart was too full 
of carking fears and cares to have room for any 
lesser lukewarm sentiments of sympathy with 
my second cousins at Woolling. I thought 
very frequently, and very anxiously, of Dodd’s 
revelation, it is true ; but my thoughts and 
anxieties were for another than Sam. 

I had dreamed day - dreams — voluntary 
dreams, so to speak — about Gervase Lacer. 
My mind was in a strange, vague, incoherent 
state with regard to him. There were times 
when my imagination pictured him as a man 
of warm heart and noble impulses, who had 
fought manfully against the evil influences of 
his youth ; as one who was sincere and candid 
to a fault, and, moreover, strangely unmindful 
of self. This same imagination conjured up 
numberless scenes and circumstances in wdiich 
I was ready to make almost any sacrifice for 
his happiness, or in which I was able to enhance 
it without any sacrifice at all ; scenes and cir- 
cumstances that showed me myself in fullest 
sympathy with Gervase, admiring him, believ- 
ing in him, grateful to him, loving him. But 
at the bottom of my heart there was all the 
while a sense of unreality. They were volun- 
tary dreams, as I have said, which did not take 
possession of me, but which I fostered and 
brooded over as I had done over fairy stories 
in my childish days. 

Then, again, came periods of reaction, wdien 
I was distrustful of Gervase, and disposed to 
be disdainful of his intellectual shortcomings. 
Not that he was dull, or that he spoke foolish- 
ly; but there was nothing in his mind — or I 
had not discovered it — to Avhich I could look 
up; there were some traits in it on which I 
undoubtedly looked down. And consciously to 
do this latter was extremely painful to me, and 
gave me an indescribable feeling of humilia- 
tion, I scarcely knew why. 

But, apart from these fluctuations of feeling, 
I had strong reason to think anxiously of Mr. 
Lacer. He had grown thoroughly confidential 
with mother and me on the subject of my fa- 
ther. In speaking to her he softened matters 
a little, having abundanee of tact, and great 
quickness in perceiving- what sort of impres- 


ANNE FURNESS. 


77 


sion he was making. And he had, too, a win- 
ning way of disarming antagonism whenever 
he had chanced to arouse it. But in talking 
to me he had long thrown off all disguise as to 
my father’s miserable fault. From him I learn- 
ed much of the perilous state of our money af- 
fairs. He was aware of the fact of my mo- 
ther’s marriage settlement. He had once very 
slightly alluded to it in speaking to me. But 
although that stood between us and literal beg- 
gary, it scarcely rendered my father’s fortunes 
less desperate. 

Mr. Laccr confirmed my idea that he had 
influenced father’s mind to acquiesce in the 
scheme of giving up Water-Eardley, and going 
away from all the temptations and connections 
that haunted its neighborhood. At least he 
so far confirmed it as not to deny it when I 
told him that I was sure it must be so, and 
thanked him for having given the advice of a 
true friend. 

All this had been well. And even his in- 
dulgent toleration of Sam Cudberry’s frequent 
companionship, which, I confess, vexed me, was 
accounted for by his (Gervase Lacer’s) unwill- 
ingness to be harsh or cold to one of my fa- 
ther’s kin. The reasons which Sam had given 
for his new friend’s good-nature I had made 
no scruple of entirely disbelieving, well know- 
ing that self-interest, in one shape or another, 
was the sole motive Sam was capable of at- 
tributing for any line of conduct deliberately 
pursued by sane persons. 

But now Dodd’s statement awoke a certain 
uneasiness within me. Half-formed conject- 
ures flitted through my mind — suspicions I was 
ashamed of, but which would not be reasoned 
down. I had observed, too, recently, a grow- 
ing air of preoccupation and anxious thought- 
fulness in Mr. Lacer, and in my father a fe- 
verish restlessness and fluctuation of spirits. 
They spoke together almost furtively ; and if I 
chanced to come upon them in the garden, as 
they strolled up and down smoking their cigars, 
they would almost invariably suspend their talk 
at my approach ; and father sometimes even or- 
dered me to go away, and not interrupt “busi- 
ness.” As to Sam Cudberry, he would at such 
times markedly separate himself from my father 
and Gervase Lacer. He (Sam) was very fre- 
quently at Water-Eardley, and very frequently, 
also, he made one amidst the smokers in the 
garden — being supplied with cigars at my fa- 
ther’s expense ; but so surely as my father and 
Lacer began any discussion in a low voice, and 
my father pulled out the little note-book and 
pencil I have before alluded to, so surely did 
Sam withdraw himself to a distant part of the 
garden, or return to the house, where he would 
sit smoking at the open window, and bestow^- 
ing his society on mother and me. It seemed 
to me almost as if Sam ostentatiously showed 
that he chose to keep himself apart from these 
conferences ; for it was, of course, impossible, 
with my knowledge of him, to suppose that his 
conduct was dictated by any delicacy, or fear 


of intruding where he was not wanted. I, hav- 
ing always in my mind what Dodd had said, 
resolved to try Sam on this point. 

“ You have left father and Mr. Lacer to their 
own devices,” said I to him on one of the occa- 
sions I have alluded to. 

Sam blew a cloud of smoke out of the win- 
dow of mother’s sitting-room, and answered, 
with a grin, “Well, yes; ’tain’t the flrst time 
either. They’ll get on all right without me.” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“All right, or all wrong, I ain’t a-going to 
plunge into their confidence.” 

“Are you not pretty deep in it already?” 
said I, with purposely exaggerated significance. 

Sam looked at me cunningly. He did not 
seem startled — he had too much of his father’s 
phlegm to be easily disconcerted — but he cer- 
tainly showed surprise. 

“Not a bit of it,” he returned, after a short 
pause. “I might if I liked; but I’m awake. 
I keep on the safe side of the hedge. I don’t 
mean it to come to father’s ears as Cudberry, 
junior, of Woolling, has been burning his fin- 
gers with any gambling games. I keep clear 
of it all. Every body here can bear witness — 
you can bear Avitness that I do. I’ve showed it 
open enough on purpose.” 

“Do you remember our servant Dodd?” I 
asked, abruptly. 

“Dodd? Yes, to be sure! He keeps a 
public between here and Diggleton’s End, on 
the London road.” 

“I know he does. It is called the Royal 
Oak, not very far from Brookfield. You go 
there sometimes.” 

This time Sam stared at me outright. 

“Why,” said he, opening his eyes and thrust- 
ing out his lips, “ he’s never gone and told you ?” 

“Dodd, do you mean?” 

Sam’s mouth stretched itself into a grin, and 
he bestowed one of his favorite winks on me. 
“ Ah !” he exclaimed, with a sort of sigh. “To 
be sure ! Dodd, do I mean ? Oh, of course ! 
Who else, eh ? That’s a good un. Oh, you’re 
deuced ’cute, Anne, and no mistake!” 

“No ; Dodd did not tell me. I heard it ac- 
cidentally.” 

“Oh, you’re aAvfully sharp! Blessed if I 
ain’t afraid of you. Miss Anne ! Or should be 
if I minded it’s being known where I go ; but 
you see I don't mind a brass farthing ! It’s for 
others to mind, not me. But fair play’s a jewel, 
as I always say, and Avhen I make a bargain I 
stick to it — ’specially Avhen it’s a jolly good bar- 
gain, all profit and no loss.” 

And hereupon Sam threw up his head, and 
roared Avith laughter at his own humor, utter- 
ing sounds so discordant that they might have 
proceeded from the throat of his sister Tilly 
herself. 

This Avas all enigmatical enough, and did 
not tend to dissipate my uneasiness. Mother 
continued to urge my father as strongly as she 
dared to take some steps for giving up Water- 
Eardley. Debts were accumulating Avith dread- 


78 


ANNE rUENESS. 


ful quickness, ready money for the merest nec- 
essaries was rarely forthcoming, and we began 
to experience what it is to be dunned by surly 
tradesmen. Our distance from Horsingham 
protected us somewhat. A man could not spare 
a whole morning from his business to come to 
Water-Eardley and ask for his money in per- 
son very often. But scarcely a post came with- 
out bringing one or two urgent requests for the 
payment of outstanding bills. And mother at 
last shrank so from encountering our creditors 
that she dreaded going into Horsingham at all. 
Still, to all representations that could be made 
to him father replied, “Wait till September. 
After September I shall look about me seri- 
ously, and make a move, if necessary — if nec- 
essary.” He varied from sanguine hope to 
gloomy despair about his prospects. But in 
either or any mood he clung to his resolution 
of waiting until September, and could not be 
induced to make the smallest effort in the price- 
less present. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ It is not for me to betray confidence,” said 
Mr. Lacer, coloring. 

“Betray confidence! Surely not. But I 
have told you that my cousin expressly declared 
that he cared not a jot who knew of his goings 
and comings. You have betrayed nothing. 
It was from another source that I heard of Sam 
Cudberry’s visits to the training-ground.” 

]\Ir. Lacer turned his head quickly, and look- 
ed at me very curiously. “Was it from your 
father you heard it ?” he asked. But, although 
he had looked round quickly, he did not speak 
quickly. On the contrary, he uttered his ques- 
tion after a pause, and with apparent delibera- 
tion. 

The words sent a pain to my heart. For 
they seemed to confirm one of my worst fears ; 
namely, that my father was mixed up with 
whatever mysteries were going on at the train- 
ing-ground of which Dodd had spoken. I had 
been able to solace myself, so long as this fear 
remained in my own breast, with counter hopes 
that I was wrong, that my father had not added 
this net to the tangle of troubles he had coiled 
around him. But directly I heard Mr. Lacer’s 
words the hopes vanished altogether, and I won- 
dered how I could ever have entertained them. 

“Father knows all about it, then?” said I, 
sadly. 

Mr. Lacer shrugged his shoulders, and gave 
a melancholy smile, as who should say, “ Can 
you doubt it?” 

Could it be my father, I wondered, who had 
been seen to accompany Sam, and to linger 
about the village ? But no ! My father’s per- 
son was too well known throughout the neigh- 
borhood. All at once a light flashed into my 
mind. I stopped — Ave were walking in the gar- 
den — and said, with a sudden vehement impulse, 
“It is you! You go Avith Sam Cudberry to 


this place ! Why do you do so ? It is not 
right. It can come to no good.” 

He was quite amazed by my breathless ve- 
hemence, and was silent for a feAV moments. 
Then he asked me hoAV I kneAV this, and said 
that he did not mean to deny it. I told him 
that I had guessed the truth at that moment ; 
and that I Avondered at my OAvn dullness in not 
having done so long before. 

He seemed a good deal troubled ; and I Avas 
so also, now that the flush of excitement had 
begun to die away. What right had I to take 
Mr. Lacer to task for his conduct? I stam- 
mered out that I was full of anxiety and sor- 
roAv on my father’s account, and that my heart 
Avas wrung by thinking of hoAv much misery 
seemed to be in store for mother, and was be- 
ginning an excuse, Avhen he stopped me. 

“Yes, I know. Your father and mother! 
I knoAV it all, Anne. Do not fear that I shall 
attribute your emotion to any interest in me. 
I knoAV you too Avell for that.” 

He had partly read my thought, and I felt 
a little confused. But I made an effort to con- 
quer the shy feeling, and told him that it Avould 
be ungrateful in me not to feel an interest in 
him after the friendship he had shoAvn for my 
parents — and for me. Feeling that he Avas 
about to interrupt me again, I added, hurriedly, 
that naturally and of course my chief care Avas 
for my father and mother; and that I Avas 
greatly distressed to find my A^ague suspicions 
confirmed. “I am, of course, very ignorant 
of all these things,” said I. “Less ignorant, 
though, than I Avould fain be. Heaven knoAvs ! 
But, of course, I can not help seeing that it is 
some speculation connected Avith the secret 
training of a race-horse Avhich is luring my fa- 
ther on, and Avhich prevents him from taking any 
energetic step to free himself from his embar- 
rassments — from his debts f I added, changing 
the phrase; “for it is Avorse than useless to 
disguise the bitter truth, by Avrapping it up in . 
vague words. And see now Avhat a misfortune 
this new infatuation is ! If it had not been for 
that, I do believe my father might have been 
persuaded, some months ago, to giA'e up Water- 
Eardley, and break free. Do you not believe 
that, too?” 

“Y-yes; I — don’t knoAV.” 

“/belieA’^e it — am sure of it. And — oh, it 
all grows so clear! — father is constantly harp- 
ing on September — clinging to September. In 
September that incomprehensible piece of luck 
is to happen that is to change every thing like 
a faiiy’s Avand! — VWy, Horsingham races ai'e in 
September .'” 

Mr. Lacer turned aAvay his head and made 
no ansAver. 

“ Oh,” said I, clasping my hands, and press- 
ing my fingers hard into the flesh, “ Avhat is it 
he has entered into ? Can nothing be done to 
prevent his losing every thing — his good name, 

I mean ; for I don’t cheat myself Avith hopes of 
saving any thing else ! I implore you to tell 
me the truth ! ” 


ANNE FURNESS. 


“Anne, Anne, don’t be so distressed!” he 
cried. The tears were running down my 
cheeks, and 1 was trembling from head to foot. 
“I can’t bear to see you take it to heart like 
this. ' If I had known — if I had thought before- 
hand — For mercy’s sake, don’t cry and shake 
so. Your mother ! — your mother may come to 
the window of her room at any moment. We 
are within sight from the house.” 

This suggestion enabled me to command my- 
self better than any thing else could have done. 
I turned my face from the house, and tried to 
compose myself, and wiped my eyes with a hand 
that trembled stilL 

Gervase Lacer stood looking at me with a 
face full of pain and perplexity. 

“You are so — so — innocent and unworldly,” 
he murmured, still gazing at me with a kind of 
compassionate surprise. “These things hap- 
pen so often — every day — and — But you and 
Mrs. Furness take it all so terribly to heart!” 

“ Is that wonderful ? Do you expect us to 
be unmoved by ruin — and, what is worse, dis- 
grace ?” 

“Ay, there it is! Disgrace! But you do 
not seriously think that there is any thing real- 
ly wicked in training a horse to run a race, do 
you ?” 

“What is the use of speaking in that way? 
You well know what all this racing and betting 
and gambling has brought my father to ! Is it 
no disgrace to be in debt, to incur fresh debts 
with no reasonable hope of paying them, to 
risk self-respect, peace of mind, the happiness 
of those that are dear to you, to plunge into 
crooked ways and stealthy schemes and false 
pretenses ?” 

His face flushed a deep red, and he frowned 
more angrily than I had ever seen him frown. 
I understood why. He had, by his own confes- 
sion, entered to some extent into the “stealthy 
schemes” I spoke of. I did not doubt that he 
felt some self-reproach, which did not, how- 
ever, make the reproaches of others more en- 
durable. 

“Look here. Miss Furness,” he said, “ I tell 
you plainly that you must keep' a better guard 
over yourself, unless you want to do great mis- 
chief — irrevocable mischief — to your father.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that as the knowledge of the — ” he 
hesitated so long for a word that I was about 
to speak, when he brought out the word 
“scheme,” which I had used, and brought it 
out with some bitterness — “the knowledge of 
your father’s scheme has partly reached you, 
you will do well to be dumb about it to others. 
Do not breathe a syllable in reference to it to 
any one. Try to forget it. That would be best 
of all. For any chance of success secrecy is 
essential. I suppose your righteous indigna- 
tion will not go so far as to make you cry the 
matter aloud on the highway!” 

“ Why,” said I, much pained, although I en- 
tirely believed that irritated temper alone made 
him speak thus, “I thought you fully shared 


79 

my feeling on this subject ; and yet you seem 
to be sneering at it now ! ” 

His face softened, and the frown gradually 
cleared away from his brow ; but he made two 
or three turns up and down the path before he 
spoke again. We had both mechanically re- 
sumed our walk from the garden to the shrub- 
bery and back again, passing each time through 
a little wicket-gate that stood open. 

“I do share your feeling to a great degree,” 
he said. “ I sympathize with you entirely. I 
would do any thing to spare Mrs. Furness pain. 
But — but — it ,is a little hard to be blamed for 
doing what I have done in friendship. To be 
blamed by yow. It is not every one’s blame I 
should care for. You know that ; you must 
know it.” 

“Forgive me if I have done you injustice. 
But, since we are speaking thus plainly, let 
me ask you w^y you have mixed yourself up 
with this miserable affair? Why, instead of 
dissuading father from it, you seem to have 
joined him in it? And, above all, why, in a 
matter to which you tell me secrecy is essential^ 
you have admitted Sam Cudberry to your con- 
fidence ?” 

After a little pause Mr. Lacer answered 
that if I would walk onward with him a little 
toward the river-side meadows he would reply 
to all my questions. “That is, if you will 
have patience to hear me out. I have great 
faith in your sense and courage, and I believe, 
after all, it will be best to trust you.” «s 

I agreed to his request, and we walked on 
beyond the shrubbery, and then he began to 
speak. At first he spoke hesitatingly, and with 
difficulty; but he warmed as he proceeded. 
He told me that father had set his heart on 
buying a race-horse from some famous stable. 
Flower had incited him to the purchase. Fa- 
ther’s means not being sufficient for the pur- 
pose — even although he raised money, reckless 
of consequences, in every possible way — he had 
(again by Flower’s advice) put the advertise- 
ment I had seen in the sporting paper. Some 
man had been found to join him — a Londoner, 
Mr. Lacer said he W'as. At this point, and not 
before, he (Gervase Lacer) had been told, un- 
der a promise of solemn secrecy, and offered a 
share in the benefits of the speculation. This 
of course, he said — answering my face, not my 
voice, for I said nothing — he had not accept- 
ed. I observed that he well knew what amount 
of henejit might be anticipated from such a 
scheme. And he answered frankly, yes, truly. 

It was not a very safe one. Not but that there 
was a chance — there was always a chance — of 
realizing a large sum. Of course, if there 
were no chance there would be an end of bet- 
ting. Nothing was sure. Well, what was he 
to have done ? To betray my father’s trust, 
and make his wife and daughter wretched by 
telling them of things they were entirely pow- 
erless to prevent ? He laid great stress on 
that. To break with my father, and leave him 
to his fate without a friend to speak to or con- 


80 


ANNE EUllNESS. 


fide in? He could not do it. He made no 
merit of this, he said. He was hound to the 
inmates of Water-Eardley by ties too strong 
for him to sever voluntarily. I might judge 
by my own feelings whether it were a pleasant 
task to carry such a secret about with him ! 
This burden he had wished to spare me. He 
still wished to spare my mother from fruitless 
anxiety. As for my cousin’s being taken into 
confidence, they had no choice. Sam Cud- 
berry had spied and spied, scenting some mys- 
tery, and had kept a watch over his (Gervase 
Lacer’s) movements, and had at last traced 
him to the training-ground, whither he had 
gone at my father’s request, and on my father’s 
errand. “And I wish,” added Mr. Lacer, 
with hearty vehemence, “that the heir of 
■VVoolling had been up to his neck, if not a lit- 
tle deeper, in one of the Woolling horse-ponds, 
before he had thrust himself upon me !” There 
was no mistaking the genuine nature of Mr. 
Lacer’s disgust and irritation with Sam as he 
said the words. “ Or I wish,” he added, a lit- 
tle more gently, “that he had been any one 
else’s cousin. That would have sufficed to 
make our acquaintance of the briefest.” 

“And on the success of this horse my father 
has staked — ” 

'"'‘Every thing. You are so pale! Take my 
arm for a moment. I almost was afraid to tell 
you — and yet you wished it.” 

“I did wish it. It was best to tell me. In- 
deed it was. And when — when Avill this — 
when will our fate be decided? At the next 
Horsingham races ?” 

“Yes.” 

“They are near at hand. And my father 
has risked every thing?" 

“ Every thing that he could risk. Your mo- 
ther’s settlement is,^of course, untouched.” 

“ Nothing could dissuade him from this, even 
now at the eleventh hour? Is there no hope 
— no chance ?” 

“Impossible! What could he do? How 
do you suppose he is to get rid of the responsi- 
bilities ? No, no, the horse must run ! Why, 
he has been backing him heavily” — he checked 
himself. Pie had been speaking with impa- 
tience — almost Avith anger. Then he resumed, 
in an encouraging tone, “But you know it may 
turn out well ! It may prove the road to for- 
tune. I confess that although I see risk — of 
course there is risk, there must be — yet I am 
very far from despairing. Great strokes of 
luck have happened, and may happen again !” 

I shook my head. This tone depressed me 
almost more than any other, although I knew 
it was kindly meant. What if the best that 
they could expect should befall, and a “great 
stroke of luck,” as Mr. Lacer phrased it, were 
to make my father a winner? The result 
would be to lead him on to further ventures, 
and to confirm him forever as a frequenter of 
the “turf.” Hoav terrible that prospect was to 
me, and how unshakable was my conviction 
that it must prove a mere road to ruin, grow- 


ing ever smoother and steeper, I have no Avords 
to say. 

“Shall I tell you what I think in my heart?” 
said I to Mr. Lacer, when he had finished the 
speech intended to cheer me. “I think that, 
if we have a living faith in the Avisdom of do- 
ing right, come Avhat may, and if Ave believe 
Avhat conscience tells us, my mother and I 
ought to pray, not for the success, but the fail- 
ure of this speculation. It Avould be better to 
be ruined outright while there is something left 
to meet the just claims of creditors, and for fa- 
ther to be driven back from the course he has 
entered on, at any cost of present distress, than 
to go on, on, on, losing health and hope and 
honor, and finish in deeper ruin at last.” 

Mr. Lacer was quite startled, and almost 
shocked, at the suggestion. 

“Pray for failure!" he cried. “Good 
Heavens ! you don’t knoAV Avhat you are say- 
ing!” 

He went on to impress upon me the para- 
mount necessity of caution and secrecy. He 
Avas sure, he said, quite sure, that I Avould not 
Avillingly be the means of destroying all chance 
of a fortunate result on the race-day by mak- 
ing any imprudent speeches. I did not knoAV 
how much depended on it. I must be stanch 
and silent for all sakes. 

I told him that he need not fear me. I Avould 
be silent. But I could not help observing hoAV 
strange it seemed to me that all this mystery 
should be necessary. If the Avhole county 
kncAv the state of the case, Avhat difference 
would it make? Such knowledge Avould not 
lame the horse, nor slacken his speed on the 
race-day ? 

“ PshaAv ! you talk like a baby. What dif- 
ference AA'ould it make ? Think of the betting ! 
Think what odds Ave — your father — Avould be 
likely to get, if — But I beg your pardon for 
speaking hastily. You don’t understand these 
things. Of course you can not. Only pray 
believe — take my Avord for it — that an impru- 
dent syllable may ruin every thing.” 

“And hoAV do you propose to secure Sam 
Cudberry’s secrecy ? What inducement do you 
think Avill avail Avith him?” 

“A bribe,” replied Mr. Lacer, deliberately. 

“A— bribe ?” 

“Did you think your second cousin inaccess- ' 
ible to one ? I am very frank, you see. Per- 
haps too frank. Yes ; Mr. Sam Cudberry has 
been offered a bribe — a tangible bribe in coin 
of the realm ; and for that consideration (the 
mention of it did not shock him, as it does you, 

I assure you) he promised to hold his tongue.” 

“What a Aveb of falsehood and meanness 
and baseness !” 

“It is bad enough,” he ansAvered, impuls- 
ively. 

I have said that Gervase Lacer’s emotions 
Avere easily excited. Noav as he spoke the 
tears came into his eyes, and the color rose in 
his face. “ It is bad enough, God knoAvs. If 
I could clear myself from it all, I Avould ; upon 


81 


ANNE FURNESS. 


my soul, I would ! If I had known such good, 
pure-hearted creatures as you long ago — Don’t 
think all evil of me, Anne.” 

He spoke very earnestly. I felt almost 
ashamed to hear his fervently expressed wish 
to extricate himself from this slough ; for was 
it not my father who had led him into it ? I 
gave him my hand. He took it in both his 
own, and, looking steadfastly at me, said, once 
more, “ Don’t think all evil of me, Anne. Be- 
side your whiteness I show dark enough ; but 
I am not all selfish. I keep back words that I 
am longing to utter. I press them back into 
my heart. My heart is very full, Anne Fur- 
ness, because I will not risk adding to your 
anxieties just now ; because I wish you to be 
free to speak to me as a friend at all events. 
Come,” he added, after a short pause, abruptly 
relinquishing my hand and turning away — 
“come; they will be looking for us. Let us 
go back to the house.” . 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A WEEK or two later the Arkwrights fell into 
great trouble. One of the tradesmen who served 
them — a butcher — became very importunate for 
his money, and finally, they being unable to 
pay him at once, took out a summons against 
Mr. Arkwright. The poor clergyman made 
shift — Heaven knows by what scraping and 
- sacrifices — to pay the money. But the misfor- 
tune did not end there. Other creditors, see- 
ing the butcher’s success, grew impatient and 
surly. Duns besieged the dark little house in 
Wood Street, and their shadows on the thresh- 
old made it darker than ever. Alice Kitchen 
was full of sympathy for the Arkwrights, and 
it was from her that I learned these facts. But 
she could not be so much at the clergyman’s 
house as formerly, for she had consented to 
marry Dodd. The wedding was to take place 
in the autumn, and Alice was busy preparing 
her clothes. Besides, she was backward and 
forward between Horsingham and Brookfield a 
good deal in those days, seeing to the arrange- 
ment and furnishing of a couple of rooms for 
her father in the latter place ; for, as soon as 
his daughter’s marriage was settled, old Mr. 
Kitchen declared he would not remain in Hors- 
ingham, and he easily obtained the situation of 
foreman with Messrs. Hobson, of Brookfield. 
This arrangement was very displeasing to his 
son. Old Kitchen was an excellent workman, 
and had had an almost life-long experience of 
the coach-making business to which his son 
had succeeded. His absence would make a 
gap which would be difficult to fill up. 

“Mat’s just like a bear wi’ a sore head,” said 
Alice to me. Whereby she intended to express 
that he was in a very sulky and ill-tempered 
condition, and ready to growl at every one. 
“And it ain’t misfortunes as sours his temper,” 
she pursued. “If money could sweeten folks’ 
dispositions. Mat ought to be like a lump of 
F 


sugar-candy ; but I reckon that lucky folks is 
sometimes like a spoiled bairn — more they have, 
more they want. When there’s no real trouble 
they just cry for the moon. Father wants to 
be near me and Dodd. That’s nat’ral enough, 
Miss Anne ; not to speak of the good wages 
and lighter work as he’ll have at Hobson’s. 
And if Mat has to pay a strange foreman more’n 
he paid father, why he’s rich enough to afford 
it. Rich ! There’s no end, it seems to me, to 
Mat s riches. It turns out as he’s the owner 
of a lot o’ houses as Grandfather Green bought 
cheap a very little before he died. Scarce a 
goes by but what we hear of some fresh 
property belonging to Mat. I don’t grudge it 
him. Miss Anne. No ; really and trul}^ I do 
not. After the first disappointment about grand- 
father’s will I made up my mind as I wouldn’t 
fret, and grow jealous and angry about it. As 
it is, you know, we are no worse off than we 
was before — which we should be if we’d taken 
to grizzling over what can’t be mended. But 
I will say as it worrits me to hear Mat and Se- 
lina going on as if it was all their own merit as 
had got ’em the money. I know as Mat always 
had a pious turn ; of course I don’t mean to 
say to the contrary. But what’s Selina got to 
be so set up about? looking around in chapel 
as proud as if her money could buy her a pri- 
vate road to salvation all to herself, like the 
right-o’-way through Woolling Park, as Sir 
George went to law about.” 

It was in vain to try to stem the flow of 
Alice’s copious speech ; but when she paused 
a moment of her own accord I tried to bring 
her back to the subject of the Arkwrights’ 
troubles. 

“Ah, dear me, yes, poor bodies!” exclaim- 
ed Alice, starting off again with exactly the 
same cheerful volubility. “Poor Mrs. Ark- 
wright came to me last Wednesday, and, says 
she, ‘You’ll be surprised to see me out of my 
own home at this hour, Alice’ — and for the mat- 
ter o’ that, so I should ha’ been to see her out 
o’ doors at a’most any hour, unless it was at 
market — ‘ but,’ she says, ‘ we’re in great straits, 
and maybe you can help us ; and I’m sure you 
will if you can,’ she says. And then she told 
me as their quarter’s rent was due that day 
fortnight, and couldn’t I persuade their land- 
lord to give ’em a little grace ? ^ Me persuade!’ 
I says. ‘ Why, my dear good soul, who is your 
landlord, as you think I can persuade him T 
‘ Don’t you know ?’ says she, looking at me with 
that suspicious kind of a shine in her big black 
eyes — you know the look I mean. Miss Anne. 
‘No,’ says I, ‘I don’t know, unless it may be 
old Ashby ; for half Wood Street did belong 
to him once upon a time.’ ‘No,’ said Mrs. 
Arkwright, very quietly, ‘ our landlord isn’t old 
Ashby now. Our landlord is Mr. Matthew 
Kitchen.’ ‘ My brother Mat ?’ says I. ‘ Niver 
in this world, sure,’ But it’s true. Miss Anne. 
The Arkwrights’ house is one of them as Grand- 
father Green bought, and it’s Mat’s property as 
certain as the day. But, eh, dear me. Miss 


82 


ANNE EURNESS. 


Anne, 7 haven’t any power to persuade Mat. 
It’s no good my speaking.” 

‘‘You might try, Alice,” said I, “for Mr. 
Arkwright’s sake.” 

“Well, I did try,” returned Alice, bringing 
out the statement a little unwillingly, I thought. 
“But Mat cut me as short as short could be. 
I tell you he’s been out of humor with me and 
father lately to that degree as if I was to say 
the moon wasn't made of green cheese he’d 
be ready to declare he knew for certain as it 
was." 

“ But you don’t think that your brother will 
really be very hard on the Arkwrights, Alice, 
do you ?” 

“Oh n-no; I don’t exactly expect as Mat 
will be — very hard on ’em. I hope not, I’m 
sure,” she answered, doubtfully. “ Of course 
you know property’s property and rent’s rent. 
A landlord has a right to get his due, same as 
every body else. But I — I don’t suppose Mat 
’ll be — very hard on ’em. The way would be,” 
added Alice, after an unusually long pause for 
her — “the best way and best chance would bo 
for some one to say a good word for them to 
Selina. Mat don’t refuse her any thing scarce- 
ly. It’s a curious thing, as I’ve often noticed, 
Miss Anne, the more a woman thinks of her- 
self the more a man ’ll think of her too. I 
think sometimes as men are with their wives 
some way like a many mothers are with their 
bairns — the fractionest gets the most cockered 
up.” 

I was truly concerned for the Arkwrights. 
Not the less so that I had very little belief in 
the forbearance or charity of Matthew Kitchen. 
I had made up my mind to go and see Mrs. 
Arkwright. I had hesitated a little before do- 
ing so, because I was not sure whether her jeal- 
ous sensitiveness might not make her averse to 
receive any visit that could be construed into 
an intrusion on their private troubles. But I 
had finally resolved to go to her, when my in- 
tention was frustrated by the very unexpected 
appearance of Mrs. Arkwright herself at Water- 
Eardley. 

On entering my mother’s little sitting-room 
one day about noon, bringing from the garden 
some fiowers which mother loved, to fill a vase 
with, I found Mrs. Arkwright sitting grim and 
stiff by the window, and my mother opposite 
to her, looking greatly disturbed. Mrs. Ark- 
wright was yellower than ever, and had grown 
very thin. There were dark rings round her 
large bright eyes, and her strong black brows 
w'ere gathered into a fixed frown, which, how- 
ever, expressed painful anxiety rather than an- 
ger. She was very, very shabby, and seemed 
to have lost the exquisite neatness which for- 
merly had, in a measure, graced her poor ap- 
parel. The hot summer sunshine streamed in 
pitilessly upon her rusty shawd and scanty gown 
and discolored straw bonnet. She was very 
dusty too, and looked fagged and jaded. But 
she sat bolt upright in her chair, with her hands 
clasped before her, in an attitude that singular- 


ly expressed the eager, energetic nature of the 
woman, and her pitiless, stern disdain for the 
smallest self-indulgence. 

She had come, she said, after barely acknowl- 
edging my greeting with the preoccupied air of 
one who is impatient of having his attention di- 
verted from some point of absorbing interest, to 
ask my mother a favor. 

“I am sure,” said mother, casting a glance 
almost of dismay upon me, “that my will is 
good to serve you, Mrs. Arkwright ; but I very 
much fear that very few people can have less 
power of doing so than I.” 

Seeing that mother, as it were, appealed to 
me to come to her assistance, and that Mrs. 
Arkwright had turned her eager eyes on my 
face, as though she were desirous of making 
me a party to the conference, I ventured to ask 
what ’favor it was she sought of my mother, 
knowing Mrs. Arkwright w^ell enough to feel 
sure that she would prefer even abrupt direct- 
ness to any more politely circuitous forms of 
speech. 

“I want Mrs. Furness to go and plead our 
cause with our landlord’s wife,” she returned. 

“But I — I — don’t know her,” stammered 
forth my mother, timidly. 

“Yes, you do.” 

“Mrs. Arkwright means Selina, mother, 
Matthew Kitchen’s wife.” 

“Ah, you know who our landlord’s wdfe 
is ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Arkwright, sharply, and as 
though she had detected some attempt at de- 
ception. 

I explained that I had only recently heard 
the fact, speaking as gently as I could. I w^as 
too genuinely sorry for Mrs. Arkwright to think 
of taking offense at her manner. 

“ Mr. Arkwright only requires a little time,” 
she said, speaking still in the same sharp, dry 
manner, although, every now and then, the tears 
welled up into her eyes, and her mouth twdtched. 

“ We have had a good many difficulties to con- 
tend with lately. The children fell ill. It is 
true, the doctor cost us nothing — your father is 
a good man, Mrs. Furness — but illness is al- 
ways costly in one way or another. Then, 
some little time ago, Mr. Arkw’right raised a 
small sum of money to pay off the last that re- 
mained of some old college debts. He got so 
tired and w^earied with squeezing the money 
out, drop by drop — it w'as such a never-ending 
work — that he thought it would be best to bor- 
row the sum here, and owe it all in one lump ; 
and the man that lent it w'as a Horsinghain 
person, and Mr. Arkw'right thought he would 
be more patient, seeing that w'e were living in 
the place, and he was safe to be paid, principal 
and interest, in the end. Perhaps it was a mis- 
take ; but if you ever have had to carry a w^eight 
for a long time, you will know that it eases you 
to shift it from one hand to another, though the 
burden remains just as heavy as before.” 

“Yes; I can understand that,” said my mo- 
ther, with a little sigh. 

“ In short, all this threw us behindhand, and 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


83 


we are not ready with the rent, and we want 
Mr. Kitchen to give us time. It’s only a ques- 
tion of two or three months,” said Mrs. Ark- 
wright, abruptly. She had been softening some- 
what, when, on my mother’s little word and sigh 
of sympathy, she suddenly resumed her dry, 
hard manner. It was ungracious, certainly. 
But it awoke in me unspeakable pity. As I 
looked at her the thought came into my head 
how, if this woman had been a pilgrim in old 
times, she would have struggled and staggered 
on, with bleeding feet and close-shut lips, over 
sharp pebbles and barbed thorns, and never have 
relieved her bursting heart by a word or a moan 
of complaint. There was stern stuff in this 
prosaic-looking English curate’s Avife, and a 
spark of sombre fire that had been haply te'ans- 
mitted to her from some fierce Norseman through 
a long line of yeoman ancestors. 

Mother rather shrank back into herself on 
seeing Mrs. Arkwright’s unflinching eyes fixed 
on her. She did not know Mrs. Arkwright so 
Avell as I did, and it was natural that she should 
feel herself to be in some sort rebuffed by the 
latter’s sternness. 

“I should think there is no doubt that Mat- 
thew Kitchen will not distress your husband, 
Mrs. Arkwright,” said mother, timidly. 

“No doubt? Why do you suppose I am 
disquieting myself, then ? It is not my fancy, 
I assure you. I am not a fanciful woman.” 

Mrs. Arkwright had her fancies too. But 
conceiving, like many other people, that fancy 
was necessarily an airy, idle, leisurely sort of 
faculty, she disdainfully disclaimed it. Ah! 
Mrs. Arkwright, was there no fancy in your 
jealous preservation of that poor necklace, 
treasured side by side with the old faded love- 
letters ? 

“But — Avhat can I do?” said my mother. 

Mrs. Arkwright repressed an impatient 
shrug, and pulled her shawl over her shoul- 
ders to conceal the movement. She put a strong 
constraint upon herself to explain distinctly that 
Alice had told her to apply to Mrs. Matthew 
Kitchen ; that she (Mrs. ArkAvright) had rea- 
son to believe that her landlord’s Avife looked on 
her Avith personal disfavor ; that she had heard 
Mrs. Matthew boast Avith much complacency .of 
having been “called upon” by the ladies of 
Water-Eardley manor ; and that it seemed to 
herself and to Alice highly probable that mo- 
ther’s intercession might avail to influence Seli- 
na to influence her husband. 

“I don’t ask you to go on purpose to the 
Avoman’s house, Mrs. Furness,” she said, in con- 
clusion ; “but Avhen you see her — she Avill come 
here, I suppose, Avon’t she, to return your visit?” 

Mother Avinced a little, and said perhaps ; she 
didn’t knoAV ; she supposed so. 

“Well, if she comes, Avill you say a Avord 
for us ?” said Mrs. Arkwright, rising. 

Mother promised to do so, but in a hesitating 
manner Avhich I was sorry for, as I feared the 
curate’s Avife Av^ould misinterpret it. I Avell kneAV 
it to arise from mingled feelings, none of Avhich 


Avere other than kindly and sympathizing tOAA^ard 
the ArkAvrights. 

It Avas impossible to persuade Mrs. ArkAvright 
to eat or drink. She set off again to Horsing- 
ham, along the dusty roaej and under the blazing 
sun, Avith a grim sort of resolution in her face, 
but Avith a step which all her courage could not 
make buoyant, and care Avas expressed in every 
line and movement of her Aveary figure. 

“ Poor Mrs. ArkAvright !” I said, looking after 
her as she disappeared doAvn the garden path. 

“ Yes ; I am very sorry for her, dear. But, 
Anne, is she not a little hard and grim ?” said 
mother. 

“She cases herself in that artificial shell — r 
perhaps just because she is not really hard, 
mother.” 

“ But, my child, she need not case herself in 
any shell Avith me. I am not so fierce or un- 
feeling, surely!” 

“ No, mother dear. But when people’s feel- 
ings have been harshly and roughly handled in 
their passage through the world, it may be they 
become so sore and sensitive that even the soft 
touch of pity hurts them.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

There Avere several motives at work to make 
Mat Kitchen hard on Mr. ArkAvright. The lat- 
ter Avas a gentleman. He was in his power very 
completely ; for Mr. Arkwright not only OAved 
three quarters’ rent, but he also OAved the bal- 
ance of the sum lent at interest by old Green. 
Matthew Avas noAv, as his grandfather’s heir, 
Mr. ArkAvright’s creditor. Then, whereas Mrs. 
ArkAvright had been very easy of access to 
Alice’s friendly offices and rough, cheery good- 
nature, she had shoAvn herself stiff and stub- 
born as a rock toward Selina, Avhose neAv bonnet 
alone (as she herself indignantly observed) Avas 
Avorth every article of Mrs. ArkAvright’s cloth- 
ing put together, and appraised at a liberal 
valuation ! 

Selina had great influence over her husband. 
There Avas no doubt in the Avorld about it. 
Many people Avere surprised at this, as thinking 
Mat Kitchen an unlikely subject to be much 
swayed by affection. I was surprised at it too 
in those days. But on looking back, I believe 
I understand it all Avell enough. It Avas not 
solely by liis affection that Mat Avas led to in- 
dulge his Avife’s Avishes, and share her preju- 
dices on so many points. He was fond of her 
in his Avay. He Avould have been “ fond” — if 
I may use the Avord in such a connection — of a 
china dinner-service, or a gilt mirror-frame, or 
a dog, or a horse, that belonged to him. His 
sense of ownership imparted a great degree of 
exaggeration to his estimate of all that Avas liis. 
And then Selina Avas the echo of his own Ioav 
nature. Had she tried to turn him from cant 
to sincerity, from avarice to liberality, from self- 
assertion to humility, from the sullen, gloomy 
code he called religion to charity and sweetness 


84 


ANNE FURNESS. 


aud compassion, her influence Avould have had 
an unpromising* task of it. 

Selina came to Water-Eardley in due course. 
But mother’s little attempt to speak for the Ark- 
wrights met with small encouragement. I had 
feared that it would be so ; and I carefully ab- 
stained from putting in a word on their behalf, 
knowing myself to be no favorite with Selina, 
and thinking that my advocacy would be likely 
rather to injure than advance the cause. 

Selina never interfered with Mr. Kitchen’s 
business, she said. Mr. Kitchen was a just 
man, and his character was well known to 
stand high in Horsingham — higher it might be 
than some that thought themselves above him. 
Mr. Kitchen was obviously a special favorite 
of Providence. He prospered in almost all 
his doings. But he had his trials, sent, Selina 
opined, for the express purpose of causing his 
virtue and godliness to shine out before all men. 
For Mr. Kitchen never made complaints of no- 
body (the redundant negative was Selina’s own), 
nor yet went about whining and whimpering 
that he was badly used. Mr. Kitchen didn’t 
owe a farthing in the world. When pay-day 
came he was ready for it, be it for rent, or 
taxes, or subscription to the chapel. Selina 
wondered that some folks wasn’t ashamed of 
going on as they did go on with such a bright 
example before them. 

“lam sure,” said mother, with a little timid 
attempt at being complimentary and diplomatic, 
“that Mr. Kitchen is very punctual, and — and 
honest indeed. But, you see, this poor gentle- 
man’s, Mr. Arkwright’s, case is not exactly the 
same as your husband’s. He has a large fam- 
ily and small means, and he. is still embarrassed 
by old debts contracted in his college days. Mr. 
Kitchen, who is so prudent and sensible in 
money-matters, had no such clog on him in his 
start in life.” 

“College, indeed!” exclaimed Selina, with 
stolid contempt. “Matthew thanks the Lord, 
and so do I, as he was never brought up in one 
of them heathen places. See what comes of 
it. Mr. Arkwright’s got a head full of stuck- 
up notions, and a pocket full of nothing at all !” 

“Precisely the reverse of Mr. Matthew Kitch- 
en’s case,” said I. 

Mother looked at me deprecatingly, but Se- 
lina accepted my words as being entirely com- 
plimentary to her husband, and replied, delib- 
erately, “I should hope it is the reverse, Anne, 
of Mr. Kitchen. If Mrs. Arkwright boasts about 
colleges, I’d have her to know that we should 
be able to send that boy of ours to any college 
in the land — if we liked to have him brought 
up on ungodly books, and hear popish services, 
and join in the revels of the wicked ; for Mat- 
thew tells me that the colleges are hot-beds of 
iniquity — and that’s more than she’ll manage to 
do for her little lad, I’m pretty certain !” 

The baseness of the woman’s exultation sick- 
ened me. Mother tried to say another word 
or two, but Selina coolly cut her short. 

“Now, Mrs. Furness,” said she, settling her 


shawl about her as if to go, but not rising from 
her chair until she had finished her speech (and 
as she sat there with her feet on a cushion, her 
back W'ell supported, and her whole attitude 
expressive of a deliberate care for her own com- 
fort, as an object of almost paramount import- 
ance, I thought of the widely contrasted figure 
of the poor clergyman’s Avife who had occupied 
that place so short a time previous) — “now, 
Mrs. Furness, I’ll tell you what it is. It’s 
meant very kind, I don’t make any doubt, your 
speaking up for the parson ; hut if you want to 
do them a service you’d better talk to your 
own husband than to me or to mine. And you 
needn’t look so surprised, for I dare say you 
understand me, and if you don’t, Anne does. 
Matthew is a prosperous man, but he has his 
trials, as I said. He has a deal of money ow- 
ing to him, has MattheAv. He has advanced, 
and adA’anced, time and again, and he don’t 
much knoAv Avhen he’s to see the color of his 
money back again. If some of MattheAv’s debt- 
ors Avould pay up, Avhy, he might be able to give 
others a little more time. You just get Mr. 
Furness to square accounts Avith Mr. Kitchen a 
bit. And it may be as Mr. Kitchen ’ll be kind 
and charitable enough to have patience Aviih 
the parson. But Mr. Kitchen he has his own 
payments to make. His men don’t Avork for 
nothing, and there’s expenses as well as profits 
in his business. And his OAvn father a-going to 
desert him, as it ’ll cost MattheAv I don’t knoAv 
Avhat and all for a ncAv foreman from London. 
And his sister a-taking up Avith a publican as 
has no more religion than a pint pot !” 

It Avas thus that Selina spoke of her old 
SAveet-heart and felloAv-servant, Dodd. 

And then she took her departure, not ruffled, 
or heated, or in any outAvard Avay disturbed. 
Her most malignant and unfeeling speeches 
Avere inA’ariably uttered Avith elephantine im- 
perturbability ; and she Avas Avont to boast that 
it Avas impossible to “put her out,” for she had 
always had a “Avonderful good temper.” 

She left disturbed feeling enough behind her, 
though. Mother AA^as bitterly distressed by her 
parting speech, and I had little or no consola- 
tion to offer her. 

As the time of the autumn races drcAv near, 
and the usual signs Avhich preceded that busy 
period began to be seen in Horsingham, fa- 
ther’s feverish restlessness rose from day to day 
until it reached a pitch Avhen he scarcely had 
any more command of himself than an insane 
person. Indeed, at times I was visited by pain- 
ful darting apprehensions for his reason. Ger- 
vase Lacer, too, shoAved traces of intense anx- 
iety. He and father made frequent absences 
together noAv. Sam Cudberry came to Water- 
Eardley, and Avas regaled Avith'food and drink, 
but he complained of its being “infernal dull” 
there noAv. 

And he dropped vague Avords to the effect 
that had he knoAvn Lacer Avas going to leave 
the army he (Sam) Avould never have bestoAved 
so much of his patronage and society on him 


AXXE FURNESS. 


85 


as he had done ; for since Lacer had become 
a civilian he had grown awfully slow company, 
and had no longer the opportunity of present- 
ing Sam Cudberry, Junior, of Woolling, to any 
choice military gentleman who might have been 
able to value his society as it deserved. Sam 
was, in a word, growing sulky. Heaven knows 
I studied his humors, and watched his moods 
with breathless attention. I felt like one at 
sea, to whom the pilot has confided that the 
ship is drifting among shoals and quicksands, 
but who knows only this vague danger, and is 
ignorant of any chart or guide to show whether 
the vessel’s progress be toward hope or despair. 
IIow much Sam Cudberry could do toward ruin- 
ing my father I knew not. Whether or not he 
would be capable of betraying that which he had 
accepted a bribe to keep secret I felt no degree 
of certainty. “ And then, after all,” thought I, 
“it must mainly depend on the horse’s running 
whether father wins or loses !” 

Mother had not ceased to cherish her plan 
of going away from Water-Eardley, nor to work 
for it as far as possible. She found an unex- 
pected ally in Uncle Cudberry. He was in the 
habit of going into Horsingham occasionally on 
market-day ; and consequently heard some gos- 
sip about the state of aftairs at Water-Eardley. 
Mr. Cudberry did not say a word of this in the 
bosom of his home circle. He was not com- 
municative by nature ; and he knew well that 
no power on earth could have insured his daugh- 
ters’ discretion as to another person’s secret, 
and he knew, too, that there were manifold rea- 
sons which rendered it undesirable that ru- 
mors of my fathei’’s being about to leave the 
neighborhood should get abroad in Horsingham 
before the time was ripe. But he went to see 
my grandfather, and talked matters over with 
him, and then came and told my mother (much 
to her surprise) that he had done so. 

The result was that he highly approved of 
the plan my mother was so anxious to forward. 
In answer to a timid hint of hers Uncle Cud- 
berry said, dryly, “No, no, no; we won’t let 
George fancy he’s following any body’s w'ay but 
his own. Mustn’t let him think as the reins are 
being took out of his hand. Lot me alone for 
that. I sha’n’t say a word to him, you may de- 
pend.” 

“George quite approves the plan,” returned 
my mother, coloring. “We have talked it 
over together. I hope you don’t imagine that 
I would for an instant think of— of— deceiving 
George, do you ?” 

“ Well, I reckon that all you womenkind are 
pretty well alike for that ; only some does it for 
evil, and some for good,” Mr. Cudberry made 
answer, in his slow, impassible way. But, after 
a minute, he added, with that glimmering re- 
membrance of having once been a gentleman 
which my mother alone seemed to possess the 
spell to awaken, “Any way, George has reason 
to be proud — and the family has reason to be 
proud — of the new member he brought into it 
when he married you, Mrs. George.” 


And he made mother the strangest stift’ little 
bow — a bow that gave one the idea of being 
made across a pompous fence of cravat, starch- 
ed and voluminous ; and yet a wisp of frayed 
black silk was all that encompassed Uncle Cud- 
berry’s lean throat at the moment. 

I suppose he had left off making bows in the 
days of the Regency, and the disused courtesy 
conjured up a reminiscence of the disused gar- 
ments also, as all well-authenticated ghosts are 
wont to appear in their habit as they lived. 

“The family !” Uncle Cudberry had, in his 
own peculiar way, almost as great an idea of 
the family importance as had his daughters; 
and despite his fitful visitings of politeness to- 
ward my mother, he did not scruple to let her 
understand that his chief reason for urging his 
nephew’s departure was his Avish to avoid a 
public crash of ruin, which could not fail to bo 
disgraceful to “the family.” 

I was watchful to discover, if possible, wheth- 
er Uncle Cudberry had any suspicion of the new 
venture my father had embarked in, and which 
was so soon to be tried. Apparently he had 
none; for, on my mother’s meeting his argu- 
ments against further procrastination with the 
constant reply, “After September — George has 
promised to take some decided step directly 
September is OA'er,” he as constantly protested 
against the unreasonableness of delay, and con- 
cluded with the demand, “ Why ? What in the 
world for ? When September’s done, why not 
go on to the end of October ? Why not go on 
the twelve months through, at that rate ?” 

To Avhich my mother had no answer to make. 
Her spirits fluctuated a good deal. She would 
be sometimes despondent, sometimes hopeful. 
These latter moods of hers — when she would sit 
and hold my hand, or stroke my hair, planning 
what we should do in the neAV life, and how we 
must study to make father forget his troubles, 
like a feverish dream, and to bring him back to 
his old fond kindness by our patience and ten- 
derness and duty — these moods, I say, depress- 
ed me more than her sad ones. I felt so guilty 
with the weight of my secret knowledge of the 
risk that was to be run, and the stake that was 
to be played for, at the dreadful autumn races. 
And they drew near SAviftly: they Avere close 
at hand. 

We did not see my grandfather often, as I 
have said. Donald came sometimes. My fa- 
ther had met him, and had received him Avith 
cold inditference, but still not in such a manner 
as to preclude Donald’s A’isiting the house. In 
truth, father at this time Avas too intensely pre- 
occupied Avith one subject to exhibit strong feel- 
ing on any other Avhatsoever. He ate his meals 
with the little leather note-book on the table 
beside him, or a “sporting” newspaper in his 
hand. Nothing roused him, nothing touched 
him, but the one absorbing topic. It Av^as pitiful 
to behold : all his old, frank, manly manner Avas 
gone, We never heard his ringing hearty laugh, 
or saAV him come bursting into the house from 
a long tramp in the fields, bringing with him a 


86 


ANNE FURNESS. 


healthy atmosphere of fresh air and good-hu- 
mor. Those things were past. I remembered 
them sometimes incredulously, as one thinks of 
the June sunshine in dark December. 

One afternoon Donald came to Water-Eard- 
ley, and asked for me. “ Will you mind put- 
ting your hat on and taking a turn in the water- 
side meadows, Anne ?” he said. “I want to 
speak to you.” 

Donald had not altogether lost his old boy- 
ish shyness. Often, in talking to me, he would 
ue as constrained as though we were strangers ; 
and would fall into fits of awkward silence, 
which I, with my more glib woman’s tongue, 
had perforce to break, though often I was shy 
enough too. Heaven knows ! But on this occa- 
sion Donald forgot to be shy. His manner was 
full of suppressed eagerness, and his eyes grew 
bright and blue as the sky over our heads as 
he took his way with me toward the river-side 
meadows, smiling to himself every minute. 
Roger Bacon, grandfather’s Skye terrier, had 
accompanied Donald, and followed us into the 
fields with a self-denying air, panting very 
much, lolling his tongue out, blinking up at us 
now with one bright eye, now with the other, 
from under his slate-colored mane, and saying, 
very plainly, “ Oh dear me, dear me, dear me ! 
What a deal of business I have on hand ! Not 
a moment to repose myself in the shade, nor 
even to take a hasty lap of water. But duty is 
duty, and I must look after these young creat- 
ures. Quite impossible they should get on for 
ten minutes without me.” 

“ What is it, Donald?” said I, when we had 
got on to the sward of the meadows. “Is it 
good?” 

“Very good ! At least I hope it is. Look 
here, Anne. I didn’t want to startle Mrs. Fur- 
ness, or — or — put her out ; so I thought that if 
you would read that, and say what you think, 
and then tell your mother in your own way — ” 

He put a letter into my hand. It was from 
Colonel Fisher, that comrade and far-away 
cousin of Captain Ayrlie, to whose Scotch home 
Donald had gone when he left Mortlands in 
his school-boy days. I learned from the letter 
that Donald had written to this gentleman to 
interest himself in finding a situation for my 
father. Colonel Fisher stated that, after losing 
some time, and with a little trouble, he had 
heard of something which might suit “Dr. 
Hewson’s son-in-law.” (This circumstance of 
his being Dr. Hewson’s son-in-law was ob- 
viously and naturally the sole reason why Don- 
ald’s friends cared to interest themselves for 
my father.) A stranger had recently purchased 
a Highland estate in Colonel Fisher’s neigh- 
borhood. The said stranger knew nothing of 
farming or the rearing of cattle — Colonel Fish- 
er spoke of him as “ some cockney tailor or 
other” — and would be glad to meet with a 
competent person to manage his estate. The 
scenery was beautiful, the situation healthy, 
and the salary would be sufficiently liberal, to 
any one coming with such ample testimonies 


to his skill and experience as Mr. George 
Furness. 

“Is it good, Anne?” asked Donald, watch- 
ing my face. 

“Good!” I exclaimed, between crying and 
laughing. “ Oh, Donald !” I put out my hand, 
which he took and held in a close cLasp. 

“I’m very glad,” he said, simply. “Mr. 
Furness won’t mind the man’s being a cock- 
ney tailor, will he ?” 

I shook my head, and cast my eyes once 
more over the letter which I held in my disen- 
gaged hand. 

“Besides, that’s only the Colonel’s form of 
speech. He has a rooted idea that every body 
from the south of the Tweed is a cockney, and 
that every cockney is a tailor ! But I don’t 
think that need distress us, eh ?” 

I laughed and shook my head once more. 
And as I shook it a big tear fell on the paper 
in my hand. Roger Bacon, who had sat him- 
self down in an attitude of vigilant waiting as 
soon as we had stopped to talk, rose up, walked 
round me, raised himself on his hind-legs, and 
snuffed uneasily at the letter I held. Appar- 
ently being satisfied that it contained nothing 
of a dangerous or disquieting nature which 
could account for my emotion, he gave a stifled 
woof, as though to express his regret at finding 
me so weak-minded, and sat down again. 

“ You have quite a color in your face, Anne,” 
said Donald, speaking in a very low voice, al- 
though there was certainly no need for his doing 
so. “ How dear it is to see the roses there 
again ! Do you know you have been looking 
so pale and wan all these months ?” 

I thought of another pale, wan face, into 
which this news would bring light and color. 

“ Oh, let me go and tell mother!” I exclaim- 
ed, hastily wiping the tears from my eyes — still 
with the hand which held the letter, for Donald 
kept possession of the other. He did not speak, 
but looked up at me in a strange, wistful way, 
and then dropped his eyes again. Roger Bacon 
got up once more, perceiving in some occult 
way that there was an intention of moving 
from the spot, and stood on three legs, with 
the fourth poised in a pawing attitude, looking 
back at us as who should say, “Now are you 
coming? Here I am kept in a state of nerv- 
ous tension by my conscientious anxiety to do 
my duty, and see you safe back to the house.” 

It flashed on me that I had not said a word 
of thanks to Donald. Was he waiting for that ? 

I did not in my heart of hearts think that he 
was asking or expecting to be thanked at that 
instant. But an inscrutable, subtile instinct, a 
strange, wayward movement of the mind, made 
me choose to assume that it was so. 

“I have not thanked you a bit for your good- 
ness, Donald. In my selfish delight I did not 
say a word of your part in this. But you know 
I feel it very deeply, and so will mother. 
Thank you a thousand times ! Indeed I am 
very grateful.” 

He released my hand. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


“I don’t want you to be grateful,” he said, 
and began to walk slowly toward the house. 
Roger Bacon darted oft’ before us like an arrow 
from a hoAv, stopped with astonishing sudden- 
ness, looked back, hesitated, finally returned, 
gazed up into Donald’s face, hastily licked his 
hand as it hung down by his side, and walked 
soberly back with us, keeping close at Donald’s 
heels all the time. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

It was the day before my birthday, and with- 
in a week of the day of the great race. Hors- 
ingham was full already. On the morrow the 
business of the great autumn meeting was to 
begin. The high-road was thronged with the 
usual motley crowd of foot-passengers and ve- 
hicles. Mother and I kept within doors, and 
when, toward evening, we threw wide open the 
w’indows of her little sitting-room, we congratu- 
lated ourselves on the circumstance of their look- 
ing across the garden, and beyond that to the 
meadows, and being away from the dust and 
noise of the high-road. 

We had been talking of Colonel Fisher’s let- 
ter. Mother had broached the subject some 
days ago to my father; and he had received 
it, she said, very^vell on the whole. The dis- 
tance from Horsingham, and the fact that he 
would be utterly unknown in the Highlands, had 
seemed to please him. If he would but bestir 
himself at once. If he would but write to 
Scotland, and make a direct application for the 
post, without further loss of time. But it was 
in vain to hope it. Nothing would induce him 
to take any step in the matter until after the 
September races ; and too great importunity on 
the subject might irritate him into throwing 
over the plan altogether. I was secretly dis- 
quieted by the fear that he did not seriously 
contemplate making the application at all — 
that he clung on desperately to the anticipa- 
tion of some marvelous stroke of “luck,” which 
should absolve him from the necessity of making 
any such sacrifice. But mother cherished a 
trembling hope that he was in earnest, and it 
was not for me to chill it. 

“Mr. Sam Cudberry and Miss Cudberry of 
Woolling,” announced the maid, opening the 
door wide ; and in walked Sam and Tilly. The 
latter was rustling and bustling with even more 
than her usual fussiness. Sam slouched behind 
her, with a mien compounded of sheepishness, 
sulkiness, and self-assertion. 

We were greatly surprised to see them to- 
gether. But Tilly forestalled any expression 
of surprise on our pai't by exclaiming at once, 
“ Now I suppose you are astonished ! Did 
you ever? The idea of Sam and me mak- 
ing calls together ! Though there’s no rea- 
son whatever why he should not be glad and 
proud to escort his sisters any where and at any 
time." 

Mother bade them welcome, and asked Tilly 


87 

to remove her bonnet, and remain to have some 
tea, which would be ready presently. 

“ Oh, la, yes ! We’ve come to tea !” scream- 
ed Tilly, with a burst of ear-piercing hilaritv. 
But she resisted all eiforts to induce her to take 
off her bonnet. It was adorned with as many 
of the pink hollyhocks she had worn at Christ- 
mas as could be placed upon it, and, surmount- 
ing Tilly s diminutive person, gave her a curious 
top-heavy appearance, which was increased by 
her stiff manner of holding her head and throat, 
in the attitude of a juggler balancing a pole. 

“And so Cousin George is not at home?” 
said she, glancing sharply round. “Po-o-or 
George ! What a pity !” 

Sam made a grimace at me over his sister’s 
shoulder, and pointed with his thumb in her di- 
rection two or three times. But I was unable 
to comprehend the drift of this pantomime, save 
that it expressed disgust and annoyance. There 
was something unusual in the demeanor of both 
brother and sister. When Sam proposed to me 
to take a stroll round the garden before tea, 
Tilly instantly announced her intention of ac- 
companying us. And when Tilly began a dis- 
cussion about some embroidery patterns with 
my mother, Sam placed himself close to them, 
and listened as eagerly as though button-hole 
and satin stitch had been the occupation of his 
life. 

We went into the garden — Tilly, Sam, and I 
— and sauntered about the paths, looking at the 
bright formal flower-beds. I asked after Aunt 
and Uncle Cudberry, and Henny and Clemmy, 
and having received satisfactory replies to my 
questions, began to be somewhat at a loss what 
to say next. Suddenly, when Tilly was stoop- 
ing to examine and criticise a dahlia, Sam 
twitched my sleeve and whispered rapidly, “ I 
say. Miss Cudberry’s twigged the whole busi- 
ness.” 

Before I could recover from my surprise and 
perplexity Tilly raised her head, and Sam ap- 
peared absorbed in the manufacture of a cigar- 
ette. 

“ You’re not going to smoke, Sam Cudberry,” 
screamed his sister, growing very red and angry. 

She had a horror, real or affected, of tobacco 
smoke ; and it was one of the numerous by-laws 
and regulations of the Cudberry family that no 
one was to light pipe or cigar in Miss Matilda’s 
presence. 

“Only a cigarette,” said Sam, rolling and 
twisting the tobacco in its paper case. “ You 
can’t mind it in the open air!” 

“But I do mind it, and I don’t allow it,” 
returned his sister, waspishly. And after a 
moment she said she should go back to the 
house and have a chat with Mrs. Georgb ; and 
accordingly set off thither. 

“Very well,” cried Sam, calling after her. 
“All right ! Fair play’s a jewel. I shall just 
finish my cigarette, and you can have your say 
about the embroidery. Understand!” 

Tilly made no other response than tossing 
her head and shrugging her shoulders. She 


88 


ANNE FURNESS. 


disappeared into the house, and Sam and I 
were left alone together. 

“See here, wc must look sharp, you know,” 
said he, speaking very quickly. “I ain’t a-go- 
ing to give Tilly many minutes in there along 
with your mother. This is the state of the 
game. Tilly, by prying and poking and list- 
ening and watching, has found out about the 
private training-ground, and that Lacer and 
your father and me are in it somehow or oth- 
er. Not that I'm in deeper than I can step 
out again, high and dry. Never fear! But 
she knows my governor would blow up sky- 
high if he got an inkling of the matter ; so that 
gives her a bit of a hold on me, don’t you see ? 
She talks about disinheriting and cutting off 
with a shilling; but that’s all my eye. The 
governor don’t choose Woolling to belong to 
any but a Cudberry, and I’m the only heir 
male ; so that's right enough ; but he has the 
whip-hand so long as he’s above-ground, and 
he might bother me a good bit about a few lit- 
tle money-matters, and make things unpleas- 
ant. So it won’t suit my book for Tilly to blab. 
Now, of course, it can’t be expected that I 
should sacrifice myself, can it ? So I’ve made 
a kind of — a kind of a — ” 

“Bargain,” I suggested. 

“ Well, yes — a bargain with Tilly to hold her 
tongue. There’s nothing I hate more than a 
row where I ain’t pretty sure to come out of it 
comfortable. I’ve acted uncommonly honora- 
ble by Lacer. But Tilly was too sharp for us. 
There was no help for it.” 

“ TEiiV/ Tilly be silent?” I inquired, anxious- 
ly. In truth, I was very ignorant as to what 
amount of evil she could do to my father’s 
schemes at this late hour; nor was that my 
chief anxiety, I confess. The thought startled 
me that she might blurt out the whole matter 
to my mother. 

“ Well, if she don’t keep mum, the bargain’s 
off. But ten to one she’ll begin slanging La- 
cer to your mother. You won’t mind that, 
you know, now I’ve explained how it is.” 

“In Heaven’s name, why has she been so 
keen to find out this business? What can it 
matter to her ? How does it interest her ?” 

“ Oh, she hates Lacer like — like the deuce !” 

“ But why ? For what reason on earth ?” 

“Lord, Anne, what a flat you are in some 
things ! Why, don’t you see ? she had made 
up her mind to catch him for herself, and he 
wouldn’t be caught. And — and she’s as jeal- 
ous of you as old boots. And you know, after 
all, the fellow didn’t act quite correct at our 
hop. That wasn’t the way to treat Miss Cud- 
berry of Woolling, hang it all ! I don’t want 
to hurt your feelings, Anne ; but, between you 
and me, Lacer’s devilish stuck up. And I be- 
lieve it’s true, what Tilly says, that his father 
does keep a tavern. But that ain’t the worst. 
I’ve heard some rum things — However, a 
nod’s as good as a wink. Don’t you go and 
get bamboozled. Think of the family!” 

By this time we were close upon the house, 


which I entered in a state of miserable bewil- 
derment. My efforts at self-possession were 
not assisted by Sam’s final whisper, as he threw 
away the last remnant of his cigarette, “ I say, 
don’t look so blue ! Don’t let Tilly twig that 
I’ve been saying any thing.” 

“And so Cousin George is away? Po-o-or 
George; I’m so sorry!” said Tilly, when we 
were all seated round the tea-table. A glance 
at mother’s face had assured me that, as yet, 
Tilly had not said any thing to alarm her. 

* “ Yes ; George is gone — on business — to 
some place beyond Brookfield. It may be that 

they will go on to W ; and if so we shall 

not see George home to-night.” 

“ 2'hey may go on!” said Tilly, so sharply 
that mother absolutely winced before making 
answer — 

“Mr. Lacer is with George.” 

This was the opportunity Tilly had waited 
for. She forthwith availed herself of it to vi- 
tuperate Mr. Lacer with all her power. She 
wondered that Cousin George could associate 
with such a fellow. She was astonished that 
Mrs. George consented to endure him in her 
house. She could not have believed that even 
the giddiness and vanity of extreme youth would 
have induced Anne to be flattered by the at- 
tentions of such a low person ! And so on, 
with deafening loudness and volubility. 

Mother remained aghast. She had had a 
specimen of Tilly’s dislike to Mr. Lacer on a 
former occasion. But that had fallen far short 
of the present tirade, whose effect was en- 
hanced by many nods and grimaces, and dark 
hints of unimagined horrors which Tilly could 
reveal were she so minded. It had scarcely 
needed Sam’s warning to keep me silent. Any 
attempt on my part to cope with Tilly’s elo- 
quence or to rebut her statements could have 
but resulted in a mere chaos of sound and 
fury, which it made me shudder to think of. 
Sam had neither the power nor the inclination to 
interfere with his sister’s speech. At first he 
glanced at me apprehensively, but, finding that 
I remained silent, he became quite at ease, and 
devoured slice after slice of a cake that stood 
before him on the table, with as much coolness 
as though he were deaf or Tilly dumb. So the 
latter had it all her own way. But the ab- 
sence of opposition did not soothe her. High- 
er and higher rose her voice, and more and 
more poignant became her epithets. She had 
reached a very whirlwind of passion, when, 
without any preliminary warning — for Tilly’s 
tones effectually quenched all minor noises — 
the subject of her violent abuse stood among 
us. 

My father and Mr. Lacer, and a third man 
whom I had never seen before, were in the 
room. There was a momentary silence. Then 
a general shaking of hands, and every body 
began speaking at once. I do not believe that 
either of the three newly arrived men had 
gleaned any idea of what Tilly had been talk- 
ing of. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


89 


“ Oh, George dear, I’m so glad !” exclaimed 
my mother, taking father’s hand, and almost 
clinging to it. Tilly’s eloquence had wholly 
bewildered and half frightened her. As for 
me, I felt as one feels who suddenly gains the 
shelter of a roof after having been tormented 
by a blustering wind, 

“You didn’t expect me, did you? We 
found Mr. Whiffles, and so had no need to go 

on to W . My dear Lucy, this is Mr. 

AVhiffles,” said father. 

The stranger shook hands with my mother, 
and made her a bow. He was, I thought, a 
very odd-looking man. He was short and 
rather stout, with a very red, smooth face, 
closely shaven, and of one uniform tint from 
forehead to chin. He had very straight, thin 
hair, smoothly plastered down on his head. 
He was dressed in a jaunty short coat with a 
great number and variety of pockets, very 
tight-fitting fawn-colored trowsers, a waistcoat 
of the same stuff, with immense mother-of-pearl 
buttons, rather high shirt-collar, a bright blue 
neckerchief, with a great gold pin stuck in it, 
representing a horseshoe whereof the nails 
were rubies, a thick watch-chain festooned os- 
tentatiously across his chest, and a stiff, tall, 
white hat. He had remarkably tight orange- 
colored gloves, beneath which several rings on 
his fingers bulged out conspicuously. When 
he spoke and said to mother, “Proud to know 
you, ma’am,” I found he had a very hoarse 
voice. And when, on being presented to me, 
he said, in short sentences, “ Glad to see you 
looking so well. You’re looking remarkably 
well, Miss Furness. I really never saw you 
looking better in all my life !” — (which was less 
flattering to my present appearance than it 
might have been had he ever set eyes on me 
before that moment) — I made the further dis- 
covery that Mr. Whiffles had a queer nervous 
habit of giving his head a little shake — like the 
action of a person expressing a decisive nega- 
tive — after each sentence, and then twitching 
his chin into its place again between his shirt- 
collars with two or three sharp jerks. I had no 
idea who he was, but I was experienced enough 
in the aspect of such people to feel convinced 
that he was in some way connected with the 
turf. 

These observations were, of course, made 
much more rapidly than they are written. It 
all passed very quickly. Some word of intro- 
duction between Mr. Whiffles and Tilly was 
muttered out by my father. Sam he appeared 
to know, and acknowledged his presence by a 
little flapping action of his band in the air, at 
the same time smiling and half closing his 
eyes. 

In the confusion of finding places at the tea- 
table for the new-comers, I did not observe 
whether Tilly’s reception of Mr. Whiffles were 
gracious or ungracious. But as soon as all 
were seated I perceived that, whatever might be 
her demeanor to the stranger, toward Mr. La- 
cer it was one of unconcealed hostility. She 


happened to be seated opposite to him, and 
took great pains to look over his. head, and to 
exhibit elaborate unconsciousness of his exist- 
ence, checkered by occasional tossings of her 
head, and disdainful snortings leveled in his 
direction. I had expected to see her rise and 
go away on the arrival of her enemy. But cu- 
riosity, and a determination to keep a watch 
on Sam, caused her to remain. 

It was a strangely assorted party. Father 
was in a fit of feverish high spirits, and talked 
a good deal. He laughed, too, at intervals. 
But it was not the laugh of old days. Ah, no ! 
He kept a sort of watch on Mr. Whiffles, at 
first, whenever that, person spoke to mother or 
me, as though a little doubtful of his behavior. 

I concluded that father had never seen Mr. 
Whiffles in the society of ladies before. Ger- 
vase Lacer was more taciturn than usual, and 
his manner was constrained and ill at ease — 
which, indeed, I did not wonder at. Heaven 
knows I was ill at ease enough myself! And 
yet I had an acute perception of the ludicrous- 
ness of many elements in the scene which 
amounted to pain. I could have broken out 
into ungoverned laughter, which would undoubt- 
edly have ended in tears ; or into copious Aveep- 
ing, Avhich would have been likely enough to 
result in convulsive laughter. HoAvever, I did 
neither, but sat still, and nearly silent, beside 
my mother, Avith a face Avhich I dare say ap- 
peared coldly composed. 

During tea Mr. Whiffles addressed his con- 
A^ersation almost exclusively to us Avomen. No- 
thing more plaintively admiring — so to speak 
— than Mr. Whiffles’s manner, nothing more 
Arcadian than the tastes and sentiment Mr. 
Whiffles professed, can be imagined. He put 
his hand on his heart every time he declared 
that upon his word and honor there Avas no- 
thing, you knoAV, so delightfully soothing as the 
country, really ! The country Avas the sweet- 
est thing. The birds and the flowers and all 
that Avas so uncommonly delicious. Mingled 
Avith the society of ladies, Avhat could a man 
Avish for more? There Avas something sooth- 
ing about the mooing of the coaa's, he consider- 
ed. It made a man reflect upon the days of 
his childhood, you knoAV. It did, upon his 
Avord and honor, really. And Mr. Whiffles’s 
head was shaken, as though in mute involun- 
tary protest, at the end of every sentence. It 
might have been objected to his st}’le of conver- 
sation that it was monotonous, for he said the 
same things OA^er and over again. And AAhen- 
ever his poAvers of entertainment appeared to 
flag for a moment he had recourse to assuring 
us three (mother, Tilly, and myself), Avith almost 
tearful fervor, that he had never in the Avhole 
course of his life seen us looking so uncom- 
monly and remarkably Avell as Ave Avere looking 
at that moment. 

But Avhen the tea-things were cleared away, 
and my father ordered the spirit-bottles to be 
brought, and each of the men mixed for him- 
self a tumblerful of Avhatsoever liquor he chose, 


90 


ANNE FURNESS. 


Mr. Whiffles, drawing his chair up near to my 
father’s, launched into a more masculine strain 
of talk, to which we women could but listen 
submissively. Mr. Whiffles, however, changed 
the matter only, and in nowise the manner of 
his speech. It was still characterized by plaint- 
iveness and monotony. There was nothing 
loud, boisterous, or rollicking about Mr. Whif- 
fles. 

It was painful to me, and might have been 
curious to any disinterested looker-on, to see 
my father hanging on this man’s words, and 
drinking in his opinions, with an eagerness and 
deference which he would not now have shown 
for the highest wisdom that could have been 
uttered to him. 

“ She’s a very sweet thing is Cock-a-hoop,” 
said Mr. Whiffles, with melancholy tenderness, 
as he drank his brandy-and-water in a series of 
gulps. “ I don’t say any thing, mind you, about 
her present form. That ain’t what it ought to 
be, nor yet what it might be. But she’s a game 
disposition. That’s what I look at in a race- 
’oss. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was to 
carry the money for the Two-Year-Old Stakes, 
mind you !” 

“Aha! Indeed?” said my father, raising 
his eyebrows, and nodding twice or thrice. 

“Well, Mr. Furness, there’s no telling. The 
prophets and the backers were very sweet on 
her stable- companion, Coriolanus, and they 
were hignominiously defeated, as you well 
know. But, mind you, I don't say they were 
wrong. What he wanted was form. But he 
exhibited form last season. Sir, such as to jus- 
tify every confidence his friends could put in 
him. And what she wants is form likewise. 
But she’s a very sweet thing indeed, is Cock-a- 
hoop ; and a gamer disposition, I’m free to con- 
fess, I should be troubled to point out among 
the two-year-olds.” 

“What do you think of Purity?” asked Mr. 
Lacer, leaning forward with his elbows on the 
table. 

Mr. Whiffles gave a gentle sigh, followed by 
two or three convulsive twitches of the head, 
before he answered, with a sad smile, “Why, 
Captain Lacer, I suppose I think pretty well 
what every body that knows any thing of the 
turf does think of Purity. There’s been a very 
industrious dodge to get him into the quota- 
tions lately. But it is seen through. Sir, and 
the speculators have peppered him unmerciful- 
ly. No, no. Captain Lacer. My advice to 
any gentleman about to make a book would be, 
‘Have nothing to say to Purity on any terms, 
for he never has been a stayer, and he never 
will be,’ and there don’t exist the course in 
Great Britain and Ireland that he’d have a 
chance on !” 

Mr. Whiffles went on in this strain for more 
than an hour, refreshing himself at intervals 
with brandy-and-water. No sage instructing 
his disciples in the precepts of virtue and wis- 
dom could have shown more gravity and mild 
decorum of manner than did Mr. Whiffles, who 


appeared, indeed, almost oppressed by the re- 
sponsibilities of his high office of preacher and 
teacher. 

Tilly Cudberry, meanwhile, sitting apart with 
mother and me, kept up a running commentary 
on Mr. Whiffles’s utterances, chiefly by means 
of broken ejaculations, as thus : “ Ha ! In- 
deed, Sir? Very pretty! This is the sort of 
society you’ve come down to. Miss Cudberry 
of Woolling, is it ? Poor George ! These are 
Mr. Lacer s comrades and associates ! That’s 
nice sort of grammar to hear at your own first 
cousin’s table, upon my word!” And so forth. 
But she also contrived to convey to mother 
that short-comings in the construction and pro- 
nunciation of the English language w^ere by no 
means among the chief of her objections to Mr. 
Whiffles. Despite her bargain with her broth- 
er, Tilly could not resist the pleasure of drop- 
ping hints as to her own knowledge of certain 
mysterious transactions in which Mr. Lacer 
and Mr. Whiffles were engaged. And before 
she w’ent away she advanced her lips near to 
mother’s ear, and blurted out in something as 
near a whisper as her voice could compass : 

“ He’s a most dangerous man ! Horse-deal- 
er ! Did keep livery-stables. Now turned 
turf-agent and tipster^ I believe. Has been 
acting as private trainer ! What do you think 
of that?” 

And what with the hurry and inarticulate- 
ness of her speech, and the unintelligibility to 
mother of the terms she used, Tilly left my 
mother with a mere vague^ terrified impression 
on her mind, which was more painful than al- 
most any explicit statement of the truth could 
have been. 

Mr. Lacer and Mr. Whiffles presently with- 
drew together. They were going to lodge in 
Horsingham, so as to be ready for the mor- 
row’s races. Father said he would stroll part 
of the way with them, as it was a fine night. 
Mr. Whiffles took his leave, protesting to the 
last that he had experienced the purest joy at 
finding us looking so extraordinary well. 

The voices of the three men had scarcely died 
away in the distance before mother turned to 
me with a pale, haggard face, and said : 

“What is this, Anne, that Tilly Cudberry 
says about Mr. Lacer and about that man? 
You know something. I watched your face. 
And I saw Sam and Gervase Lacer exchange 
looks of intelligence also. Is there any fresh 
trouble ? Don’t try to deceive me, child. No 
good can come of that!” 

Before we slept that night I had made a full 
confession to mother of all I had learned from 
Mr. Lacer. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

That week was passed by mother and me 
in a sort of dizzy apprehension. I think mo- 
ther’s state of mind must have been like that 
of some panting, hunted creature, conscious of 


ANNE FURNESS. 


a swiftly coming doom. I used to see her 
watching the clock above the stable door, or 
the creeping shadoAvs stealing over the garden, 
Avith strained eyes and blanched cheeks, as 
thongh she were counting the minutes. My 
birthday came and Avent Avithout my tldnking 
of it. But Avhen I Avent to rest, I found a 
bunch of Avild floAvers on my pilloAv, Avrapped 
in a paper on which AA^as Avritten, “God bless 
my dear child Avith many happy years.” 

Horsingham Avas full of strangers. It Avas a 
very “ good race-Aveek, ” the people said. There 
was no hint of our visiting the race-course. Fa- 
ther Avent there daily ; but mother and I knew 
that the great die was to be cast on the Wednes- 
day afternoon — the last day but one of the races. 

The sunbeam that fell upon my eyes and 
woke me on that Wednesday morning seemed 
to pierce me like a SAvord. It is very dreadful 
to Avake to a consciousness of care, and to 
tremble at the thought of what Ave must do and 
suffer Avhen Ave shall have left the shelter of our 
bed. I haA'e never Avondered at unfortunate 
and unhappy people groAving to be sluggards. 
When a Avintry, arctic world aAA-aits us without, 
it is natural to cling to the dull, Avarm, stupe- 
fying atmosphere of even an Esquimaux hut. 

At about tAvelve o’clock my father made his 
appearance down stairs. The table was spread 
for his solitary breakfast — mother and I had 
had ours hours before — but he could scarcely 
eat any thing. He called for some beer, and 
drank off a tumbler of the foaming liquor fe- 
verishly. He kept glancing out of the AvindoAv 
at the sky. It aa'us a bright, warm day ; but 
mother happening to mention that there had 
been some heaAy showers in the night, he 
asked, quickly, Avas the ground soft ? And 
presently Avent out and looked at the laAA'n, and 
put his foot on it to feel Avhether the earth Avere 
soaked. 

At last the time came for him to set off. 

FloAver brought the gig round to the hall 
door, and' stood at the horse’s head while my 
hither was taking leave of us. It was a very 
slight and short farewell. He scarcely spoke 
a Avord. He had been silent all the morning. 

“Anne, Avill you give me that other driving- 
gloA’e from the hall table ? Thank you. Good- 
by, Lucy. Give him his head, FloAver.” 

He Avas gone. He had just kissed mother’s 
forehead, jumped into the gig, and driven off 
very fast A^^ithout once looking round. 

I turfied to take mother’s hand. She pressed 
mine fondly, but did not speak, and hurried 
a'rtuiy to her OAvn room Avith averted head. In 
a moment I heard the door shut and locked on 
the inside. 

I could neither read, nor scav, nor sit still and 
idle in the silent house. I threw a broad hat 
on, and Avent out into the sunny garden. But 
I had not been there many minutes before I 
longed for the shade and shelter of the house 
again. An unreasoning fit of fear took hold 
on me that I should see or h^ar something 
from the race-course. There Avere voices in 


91 

the road, of the throngs of people making for 
Horsingham ; and the sound of them came in 
hiint wafts to my ears, for they AA'ere a long Avay 
off. But I could not bear the tones in which 
my nervous fiincy conjured up Avords and sen- 
tences about the great race. So I came back 
quietly to the house, and threAv my hat off, and 
sank down, hot and panting, on a couch in the 
morning-room. And there I staid, half sit- 
ting, half reclining, with my arms folded on the 
square, old-fashioned pilloAv, and my head rest- 
ing on my arms, hiding my face, and shutting 
out light and sound. And so at last I fell 
asleep. At first it Avas an uneasy doze ; but I 
courted it, and remained as still as might be, 
trying neither to fear, nor to hope, nor to think, 
but to lull my mind into inaction ; and so grad- 
ually, being young and healthy and Aveary, I 
sank into a deep, soft, dreamless slumber. 

I AA’as aAA^akened by an agitated voice in my 
ear. 

“ Anne ! Dear Anne ! Are you not Avell ? 
What is the matter ?” 

My first thought on Avaking Avas that it had 
been selfish of me to sleep there while mother 
Avas AATCStling Avith anxiety and heart-sickening 
apprehension. I raised my head, and my eyes 
encountered Donald Ayrlie’s. He Avas bending 
over me, Avith a perplexed face. 

“No, no,” said I, hastily pushing my hair 
back from my flushed face. “ I am quite Avell ; 
but I — I could not read, and I Avas so tired, and 
the heat — I fell asleep.” 

“ You look like the little Nancy who sat on 
Doctor HeAvson’s knee, and cried Avhen I went 
aAvay to school,” said Donald, sitting doAvn be- 
side me, taking my hand, and looking Avith an 
inexpressible tenderness into my face. And 
then in a minute — I can not tell hoAV or in 
Avhat words it Avas conveyed — I kneAV that he 
loved me, and that he was asking me to be his 
wife. Two hours before I should have denied 
that I Avas aware of this feeling in him, and not 
denied untruly ; but noAV that the Avords Avere 
spoken, it seemed to me that I had ahvays 
knoAvn it ; and Avhen he said, “Anne, you must 
have seen hoAV' dearly I love you — I think I 
have loved you eA^er since Ave Avere children to- 
gether” — I could utter no Avords of denial. I 
kneAV that I should be subjecting myself to an 
accusation of heartlessness and coquetry if I 
tacitly admitted that I had seen his love, and 
carelessly let it ripen, and then Avere to reject 
it after all. And at that moment hope and 
happiness Avere so out of tune AAuth the dolor- 
ous strain of the life around me, that it seemed 
impossible to Avelcome them selfishly ; and yet, 
for the life of me, I could not say a Avord. 

“You did know it, Anne? It has seemed 
to me often as if any Avords of mine Avere need- 
less to tell you hoAv dear you are to me ; and I 
have hoped that — that you felt this too. Won’t 
you say a Avord, dearest ?” 

At this moment my mother opened the door, 
and stood looking at us. The contrast between 
her sorroAV-Avorn face and Donald’s, all agloAV 


92 


ANNE FURNESS. 


-with hope and youth, brought the hot tears to 
my eyes. I ran to her, and liid my face on her 
shoulder, crying, 

“ No, no ; don’t ask me. I can not, I can 
not.” 

If I could not make mother happy, I would 
be sorry with her. That was no time to bask 
in the sunshine of joyful love. 

I sobbed bitterly, and without thinking of 
giving myself any account of my emotion. But 
now I believe — I know— that I was pitying my- 
self for renouncing his true love more than I 
pitied Donald. And yet I was sorry for him 
from my heart. Truly I had the most claim to 
pity, for I was never so blind as not to know 
him for better, stronger, nobler than I. He 
lost a slighter thing in losing me than I re- 
nounced in turning away from him. 

A hasty word or two explained the scene to 
my mother. She had been startled at first 
Avith the dread that Donald was the bearer of 
ill news from the race-course. 

‘‘ Have you no word to say to me, Mrs. Fur- 
ness?” asked Donald, looking at my mother. 
He was quite pale now, and the light had gone 
out of his face. 

Mother Avas greatly agitated. She loved 
Donald Avith a true atfection. But she had 
lost her nerve and the mild self-possession that 
had once made all her Avords ring full and true 
like sterling coin. She trembled and stam- 
mered, holding me circled in one arm, and 
nerA'OUsly stroking my hair Avith the other 
hand, as I kept my face still hidden on her 
shoulder. 

“ Oh, Donald, Avhat shall I say to you ? I 
can not at this moment urge Anne to accept 
your suit. It would not be just. It Avould not 
— I fear it Avould be dishonorable. I — I — Do 
not press it now, dear Donald, I implore you.” 

I Avell understood that mother Avas thinking 
that it Avould be neither just nor honorable to 
tie Donald’s lot to that of a girl whose father 
might be at that moment an utterly ruined and 
— worse, far Avorse — a disgraced man. But he 
took her Avords differently. 

“I shall not ui'ge her, Mrs. Furness, be very 
sure. Although it Avere my life I AA^as begging 
of her, I could not take it from a grudging 
hand. If it Avere my life ! It is more to me 
than the mere right to go on living. If Anne 
had loved me — ” 

He stopped as if the Avords choked him, and 
there Avas a moment’s absolute dead silence, 
AA'hich seemed to last an hour. Then he pro- 
ceeded — 

“Let her do that Avhich is ‘just’ and ‘hon- 
orable.’ I am sure she Avill. I Avish her hap- 
py. There is no one to blame. I have been 
a fool, and believed AA'hat I Avished.” 

‘‘ Donald, don’t go so ! Stay a moment — 
let me say a Avord!” cried mother, releasing 
me from her arms, and making a step forAvard. 

“ I can not. For God’s sake don’t stop me ! 
Let me go into the air. I shall — die — if — I 
stay here.” 


I looked up at hearing the broken tones of 
his voice and his labored breathing. His chest 
Avas heaving as though it Avould burst. Ho 
struggled hard to command himself. As he 
ran out of the room I rushed to the AvindoAV, 
and folloAved him Avith my eyes ; and before 
he reached the bottom of the garden I saAV 
him lean his forehead against a tree, and burst 
into a passion of convulsive sobs. 

The sun sank and sank. The sounds of 
clattering hoofs and trampling feet and rolling 
Avheels, and loud, boisterous, Avhooping voices, 
began to be heard from the road. Our meal 
remained almost untasted on the table. Mo- 
ther and I sat hand in hand, and gradually 
ceased all i)oor pretense of encouraging each 
other by Avords, and sank into silence. And 
thus we Avaited, Avaited, Avaited in the darken- 
ing room. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

It Avas quite dark before Ave heard the sound 
of Avheels upon the gravel of the drive. The 
maid had brought the lamp into the room, but 
mother had bidden her shade it, and leave it 
on a side-table. We kept the Avindows open, 
partly because it Avas a close, sultry night, and 
partly that AA^e might hear the sound of the 
gig’s approach. A large, Aveird-looking moth 
flew in and fluttered and Avheeled about the 
light, and, striking itself noAV and then against 
the glass globe, made a sound at Avhich aa’o 
started, and our pulses throbjaed painfully. 
There AA’as no other sound. Not a tAvig moved 
in the garden. The noises had died aAvay in 
the road. There Avas, doubtless, some roister- 
ing mirth rife in Horsingham, but out there in 
the country all Avas brooding heat, darkness, 
and silence. 

“Can you not catch the foolish creature?” 
said my mother, neiwously tAvitching the fin- 
gers I held in mine, as the moth struck itself 
against the lamp Avith a dull thud. “It Avill 
be scorched. Put it out into the air.” 

Mother spoke almost in a Avhisper. I rose 
to obey her, trying to catch the insect in my 
handkerchief, Avhen at that moment Ave heard 
the sound of Avheels. 

“Anne, he is coming!” said mother, A'ery 
faintly. Her face Avas ashy pale, and she 
leaned back on the sofa like one in mortal 
sickness. 

It seems strange to me noAv to remember 
that before I ran to her I carefully enA^eloped 
the moth, Avith a sudden stealthy movement, 
in my handkerchief, carried him to the Avin- 
dow, and shook him out into an unseen odor- 
ous garden-bed. 

“ Shall I go to the door ?” I asked, standing 
close by my mother, but not touching hei-, and 
clasping my hands tightly together. 

“Let Sarah open the door. He might be 
vexed at your going.” 

There AA'as a short pause, more intolerable, 


ANNE FURNESS. 


93 


as it seemed at the moment, than all the hours 
of waiting we had gone through, before the door- 
bolts were withdrawn. Then we heard voices, 
the stamping of hoofs, and Flower crying, an- 
grily, “ Woa then ! We-e-y, lass ! Damn 
thee, can’t thee stand still half a second, thou 
cursed fidgety brute, thou !” And then a long 
string of muttered oaths and blasphemies, which 
died away, mingled with the noise of the ve- 
hicle being driven round to the stable-yard. 

Footsteps came heavily along the hall, and 
the door of the room in which we were was 
flung roughly open. 

“Thank God, you’ve got home all safe, dar- 
ling George ! I was beginning to be almost 
weary,” exclaimed my mother. She spoke 
quite strongly, even cheerfully, and advanced 
toward my father, and put her hand on his 
shoulder. In her great pity and undying love 
for him she found strength to show him a 
brave, bright face in the first moment of his 
return. Let fate do its worst, he should have 
nothing but comfort from her. But my father 
seemed scarcely conscious of her voice or of 
her touch. He stumbled strangely, and fell 
heavily into a chair. 

Gervase Lacer had entered with him, and 
his eyes met mine as I looked up at him in 
surprise at father’s demeanor and aspect ; but 
he glanced away, and did not support my gaze 
for an instant. 

“ I think,” he said, hurriedly, “ that you 
might as well send the servant-girl to bed. 
She can’t do any good. Get her out of the 
way.” 

Then the truth flashed upon me that my fa- 
ther was intoxicated. I had never seen him 
so before in all my life. I glanced at mother, 
and saw in the anguish of her white face that 
she perceived it also. 

“Lucy,” muttered father, in a thick voice, 
and taking her hand in his, “you mustn’t be 
cast down, my girl ! Lucy — there’s — there’s 
been foul play. Damned foul play. But 
Whiffles, Lucy — Whiffles is a trump. We 
shall — we shall smash ’em next time. I have 
friends. Lacer is my friend. Whiffles is my 
friend. Lucy — h’sh ! it’s a secret. The bay 
colt ’ll astonish them yet. Ha, ha, ha !” 

He burst into a discordant laugh which made 
us shiver. Then all at once his heavy eyes 
became aware of me — they had rested on me 
before, but apparently without seeing me — and 
he said, still in the same thick tones, but with an 
altered manner, “ Take her away, Lucy ! Take 
the child away! She — she mustn’t see this.” 

But all the while he held his wife’s hand in 
one of his ; and with the other he presently be- 
gan to loosen his cravat, tearing it off with un- 
certain, helpless fingers. By-and-by his head 
drooped forward on his arms, which rested on 
the table in front of him— he still holding mo- 
ther’s hand, and drawing her down until she 
knelt on the floor beside him, although he con- 
tinued to murmur, “ Go away, and take the 
child, Lucy. Take the child. She mustn’t see 


this.” But soon his fingers relaxed their hold, 
and released her, and he fell into a stupor rath- 
er than a sleep. 

None of us spoke a word until his heavy 
breathing had lasted some minutes. Then 
Mr. Lacer whispered to me once more to send 
the girl to bed. 1 went into the kitchen to 
dismiss her, and found her nodding and blink- 
ing sleepily beside a flaring candle. She was 
thankful to be allowed to go to bed. She had 
not bolted the kitchen door. Flower not having 
yet returned from putting the mare up in the 
stable. I told her that I would see to the fas- 
tenings of the house, and dismissed her up 
stairs. 

When I went back into the sitting-room I 
found that father was partially aroused from his 
sleep, although he was far from being in full 
possession of his consciousness. 

Mother’s face looked rigid as stone, and her 
eyes unnaturally bright. Her force and cour- 
age amazed me. She spoke in a firm, steady 
voice. 

“ George, dearest, you must go to rest. We 
will talk together in the morning. We are all 
tired now. It is late.” 

“Lacer,” stammered my father, letting his 
clenched fist fall heavily on the table — “Lacer 
— you’re my friend. Are you or are you not 
ray friend ? Will you back the — the bay colt, 
to run against the field — the fields I say I Ev- 
ery horse ! Every jockey — cursed swindlers I 
We'll — we’ll train a jockey ourselves. H’sh ! 
Wait a while! H’sh, h’sh, h’sh! It’s a se- 
cret. But if the bay colt doesn’t smash them 
all — you may poison him ! Ha, ha, ha ! you 
may poison — no, you may poison me, my boy ! 
That would be the best. Ha, ha, ha ! Ha, 
ha, ha !” 

Again came that dreadful drunken laugh, 
which this time ended in a hoarse gasp ; and he 
tore his shirt open as though he were choking. 
Then looking at me with a strange, vacant 
stare, he mumbled out once more, “ Take away 
the child, Lucy. Take — take her away. She 
mustn’t see this;” and then dropped his head 
again, hiding his face on his folded arms. 

At a sign from mother I withdrew into a 
distant part of the room, standing behind my 
father, so that he could not see me. Then she 
bent over him and kissed his hair — the once 
bright curling hair she had been so proud of, 
now grizzled and dank and tangled and un- 
cared for — and coaxed him and prayed him to 
be comforted and go to his rest. 

“Come, Furness! Do as your wife wish- 
es,” said Mr. Lacer, taking hold of father’s 
arm. Mr. Lacer’s voice roused him somewhat. 
He made an effort to raise his head and steady 
himself. 

“My wife!” he cried. “A good wife, La- 
cer! An angel! The sweetest -woman — the 
sweetest woman in the world, I say ! Poor 
Lucy ! my poor girl !” 

Here he began to moan weakly, and fell into 
a fit of sobbing, although only a few stray tears 


91 


ANNE EUIINES^; 


rolled slowly down his cheeks. Mother ran to 
take his hand, and kiss it ; but he pushed her 
from him with the action of a peevish child, 
and murmuring that no one cared for him; 
that he was alone ; that he had done all for 
others, and that they never believed him, never 
had any confidence in him ; and alternately call- 
ing all men to witness that his luck had been 
infernal, and chuckling over the sure success of 
a new project which must be kept secret — secret 
as the grave — he gradually suffered Mr. Lacer 
to lead him to his chamber. 

Mother sat quite still, with her two hands 
pressed upon her temples, staring blankly out 
into the darkness. I did not dare to speak to 
her. I scarcely dared to breathe or move. A 
strange feeling was upon me, which made me 
dread to break the stillness ; a feeling as of a 
climber on a steep precipice, whom a panic fear 
suddenly unnerves, and who, incapable of mak- 
ing a step backward or forward, clings with 
clenched hands to the spot whereon he finds 
himself. So w^e remained silent until Mr. 
Lacer came back. 

“ He is asleep,” he said, seating himself with 
his face in shadow, and leaning his head upon 
his hand. “ He fell asleep immediately.” 

There was a pause. 

“I need not ask — I will spare you the pain 
of trying to break it to me. Every thing is 
lost,” said my mother, in a low voice. 

“ Every thing.” 

“I knew it.” 

But although she had, in truth, anticipated his 
answer, it gave her a blow wdien it came. Hope 
strikes many fibrous roots into the heart ; and 
I think mother had scarcely known that any 
still lurked in hers, until she learned it by the 
pain of having it torn out. 

Mr. Lacer began trying to explain to us how' 
it had come to pass that the race had been so 
disastrous for father*. I gathered little from his 
explanation beyond the fact that there had been 
fraud, and lying, and swindling; tampering with 
trusted agents, bribing, spying, villainy. “ Our” 
horse had been beaten. But even that would 
not have involved utter ruin, if the favorite had 
W'on. “At the last moment I got Furness to 
hedge, so as to save something out of the fire, 
if only that cursed beast had got first to the 
w'inning-post.” But the favorite too had been 
ignominiously beaten. Accusations of foul play 
had been in every mouth. The horses had re- 
turned to weigh in, surrounded by a mob of 
yelling and infuriated ruffians. One man had 
been roughly handled, and only escaped w*orse 
injury — perhaps death — by the protection of a 
gang of hired pugilists, with Avhom he had prov- 
idently surrounded himself. There had been a 
fearful uproar, and one that was remembered in 
Horsingham for many a year after-ward. 

Mr. Lacer grew heated at the recollection of 
the scene. More than one deep, angry curse 
had escaped him, when mother shudderingly 
put up her hand to stop him. He ceased speak- 
ing on her gesture. But after a second or two 


he said, excitedly, “You know, Mrs. Furness, 
how I feel for you. I do, on my soul ! But 
you must forgive me if I don’t stop to pick my 
-w'ords like a young lady. I have been badly 
hit, too. This has been a black day for me.” 

“ You too !” cried mother. Then she made 
a moan, wringing her hands, and murmuring, 
“What a curse this is! what a curse!” and 
rocking herself backward and forward. 

Then — for he was genuinely sorry for her — 
he took back his words in a measure, and tried 
to comfort her. Though things were bad, they 
were, perhaps, not so desperate after all ! For 
himself, he should tide over it. And Furness 
— if Furness could only get away out of the 
place — clean away — good luck might come back 
to him. She (mother) must be firm. All was 
not lost, so long as she was stanch. 

Mother was walking up and down the room, 
with her hands again pressed to her temples, 
and made no answer. I doubt whether she 
heard what Mr. Lacer was saying. Then he 
turned tome, and spoke vei*y earnestly, and said 
that I, too, must be firm, and not yield to the 
pressure of misfortune which might be fright- 
ened away by a brave front. Weak yielding 
never did any good. He insisted much on the 
necessity of our being firm. I did not under- 
stand the full purport of his words until after- 
ward. 

“ Why did you let George drink ?” said mo- 
ther, stopping all at once with a strange sudden 
flash of anger, and disregarding what Mr. Lacer 
was saying to me. “ You might, at least, have 
let him come home to us in his senses ! Am I to 
have that horror ? It would be the w'orst of all. 

I would rather beg barefoot by his side than see 
him degraded in that way. You don’t know 
what George was. You have never seen him 
at his best, as we knew him. Such a frank, 
upright, manly nature! I thought my heart 
would break when I found — ” She ceased, un- 
willing to finish her sentence, and walked wildly 
up and down the room again. 

Gervase Lacer looked startled at first by this 
outburst, but he answ'ered with a gentleness and 
forbearance that moved me. He assured mo- 
ther that he had had no poAver to prevent her 
husband from drinking. A knot of men had 
gathered round him, losers like himself. Fur- 
ness had been so excited and upset by the Avhole 
scene on the race-course that he scarcely seem- 
ed to know what he was doing. 

“ I could not get him away from them, Mrs. 
Furness,” he said. “ Hoav was it possible that I 
should have done so ? But I stuck by him. I 
Avas determined not to leave him until he aa'us 
safe at home. And God knoAA's I dreaded facing 
you and Anne. But I thought I Avas acting a 
friend’s part. I could do no more.” 

Mother gave him her hand, and piteously 
begged his pardon. “ I’m half distracted, I 
think,” she said. “ But to see George in that 
state — You don’t knoAv Avhat it is to me. No 
poA*erty could be so bitter, nor half so bitter. I 
liaA'e alAvays been so — so — proud of him !” 


ANNE FURNESS. 


95 


Her lips trembled, and she burst into tears. 
It was almost a relief to see them. Her dry- 
eyed misery had been terrible to me. I signed 
to Mr. Lacer not to speak, and he stood watch- 
ing her uneasily, as she sobbed with her face 
hidden in her hands. I did not approach her. 
I felt that it was best to refrain from speech at 
that moment. There was not antagonism, but 
division between us. Mother knew with her 
quick instinct of affection that even while I 
pitied my father — and God knows that I did 
pity him — I felt resentment against him at 
sight of her suffering. It was so. I could not 
help the feeling. 

I had not forgotten that I had undertaken to 
see to the fastenings of the house. The kitch- 
en door had been left open, and there was no 
reliance to be placed on Flower. In all likeli- 
hood he had come home in a state of drunken- 
ness, as was his wont — a state in which, how- 
ever, he seemed always to possess a mechanical 
power of attending to his stable duties. Flower 
had never been known to neglect a horse, father 
was accustomed to boast in speaking of the man. 

I explained my errand in a word or two, and 
taking up a small lamp which had been left 
burning in the hall, I made for the kitchen. 

In a moment I heard Mr. Lacer’s footsteps 
following me, and I stopped, and turned, and 
bade him go back ; I was not frightened. He 
pressed on after me, however, saying that it was 
not safe to let me do such an office alone at that 
late hour. I made no further remonstrance, 
but went straight into the kitchen, being bent 
on getting my errand accomplished as quickly 
as might me. The large, stone-flagged kitchen 
was empty and silent. All was undisturbed 
there. But the door, as I had conjectured to 
be likely, was left unbarred. 

“Flower has gone to bed, and thought or 
cared nothing about the safety of the house,” 
I said, bending down and using all my strength 
to move the heavy bolt that grated dolefully 
through the silent house. But Mr. Lacer bade 
me let him do it, and took my hand to remove 
it from the bolt, as I thought ; but on a sudden 
he stooped, and kissed my fingers lightly— al- 
most timidly. 

I turned on him, drawm to my full height, 
startled and flushed and indignant. 

“Please to fasten the door, or let me do it. 
I must return to my mother.” 

Then he burst out with a kind of suppressed 
vehemence, clasping his hands tightly together 
with the action of one forcibly restraining him- 
self from demonstrative gestures. 

“ Anne, don’t be angry with me ! You can’t 
suppose I meant to offend you? I would die 
sooner than offend you. But I must say now 
what is in my heart — ” 

“ No, no ! Say no more ! Pray say no 
more I” 

“ I viiist speak, Anne. I do not ask for an 
answer at this moment. But I can not leave 
you to-night without telling you that — that no- 
thing can alter my love for you. Oh, Anne, if 


you would give me the right to love and cher- 
ish you, I would devote my life to making you 
happy.” 

Now that he had spoken, I felt strangely self- 
possessed. My agitation seemed to have fled. 
I answered him with a tremor in my voice, but 
scarcely any at my heart. “ This is no time to 
speak of — of love to me. I can think only of 
them. You must know that it is so — must be 
so ! I am not ungrateful. But you, too, are 
excited and unstrung. You are speaking from 
overwrought feeling — sympathy. ” 

“Oh, stop, for God’s sake! I can’t bear 
that !” he cried, starting back from me as if I 
had stung him. 

“ I do not mean to hurt you, indeed ! It 
would be heartless and ungrateful beyond meas- 
ure. But I know that I ought not to accept 
seriously what you say now in a generous im- 
pulse of pity.” 

Again he interrupted me, this time gripping 
my wrist until the pressure of his fingers hurt 
me. 

“ I tell you I can’t bear it, Anne ! Don’t, 
for God’s sake, talk of my — my generosity!” 

After a moment’s pause he resumed more 
calmly, “I love you better than I ever did or 
shall love any mortal woman. Believe that, 
Anne, whatever happens. If I had known you 
sooner — But it is not too late. It shall not 
be too late. Cast in your lot with me, Anne. 
We are in the same boat.” 

“Nay! Our boat has made shipwreck. 
Keep out of it.” 

“ I tell you, Anne, that Ave will sink or swim 
together.” 

He tried to take my hand again, but I drew 
back. 

“You are not angry, Anne ?” he said. 

“ Angry ! No ; I am not angry. I feel that 
it is generous of you to come forward at this 
moment of trouble and misery.” 

“ I could not leave you to-night, dearest, 
without telling you that all the trouble only 
makes you dearer to me. I held my tongue 
Avhile you were the prosperous heiress of Water- 
Eardley. But noio I can speak Avithout my sin- 
cerity and disinterestedness being suspected.” 

This jarred on me. I Avished he had not said 
it. “Pray,” said I, “let us speak no more of 
this to-night. Let me go to mother. She is, 
and ought to be, my first consideration.” 

“But you are mine, Anne! First and best 
and dearest. There, I Avill not try to detain 
you. I Avill press for no ansAver now. I have 
eased my heart by speaking. Think of me a 
little kindly if you can.” 

We returned to the sitting-room, Avhere mo- 
ther Avas standing at the open windoAv. 

“How close and heavy it is!” she mur- 
mured, Avithout turning her head, as she heard 
us enter. “Not a breath stirring! Is the 
house secured ?” 

We told her that it AA'as so. And then Mr. 
Lacer took his leave. 

“You must AA’alk? It is late. You have 


ANNE FURNESS. 


’ 9G 

no apprehension ? Onr road is generally safe 
enough. But at this time — ” 

“Apprehension! None whatever. People 
will be about all night long. And, though it is 
late for Water-Eardley, it is really not such a 
terrible hour. It wants half an hour to mid- 
night. God bless you, Mrs. Furness ! I will 
be here betimes in the morning.” 

He went away into the sultry darkness. 

I was so weary that I thought I must fall 
asleep the instant my head touched the pillow. 
But as soon as I was in my bed I was haunted 
and haunted by troops of thoughts and fears 
and fancies that rushed through my brain and 
broke my rest. 

Only as the dawn began to. glimmer through 
my window did I fall asleep. And I woke with 
a violent start, as if I had been struck, when 
the sun was high. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 


I WAS first in the breakfast-room ; but mo- 
ther presently stole down stairs, white and noise- 
less as a ghost. 

“Your father is asleep,” she said, almost in 
a whisper, although his room was far out of 
ear-shot. “I have no heart to disturb him. 
It is better that he should sleep.” 

In truth, we both dreaded the moment when, 
awaking from the heavy stupor that steeped him 
in forgetfulness, he should live to the full con- 
sciousness of all that had happened yesterday. 

I persuaded mother to take some tea. For 
a long time she refused to attempt to eat, say- 
ing that she felt as if food would choke her. 
But I finally succeeded in getting her to swal- 
low a few mouthfuls, on the plea that if she 
broke down and fell ill it would be an over- 
whelming blow for father. I told her, as we 
sat at the breakfast-table, what Gervase La- 
cer had said to me last night. She leaned her 
head on her hand, and looked at me thought- 
fully. “I expected this,” she said. “What 
answer did you make him?” 

“ I told him that I could make him none at 
that time, mother,” I replied, casting down my 
eyes under her gaze. 

“ Do you love him, Anne ?” 

“Love him! I — I — don’t know, mother.” 

“ My darling, I have watched him closely, 
and I am afraid — afraid that he is not good 
enough for my Anne.” 

“ Oh, mother!” 

“It is not foolish mother’s fondness that 
makes me say so, nor any prejudice against 
Gervase. I like him. He is genial and 
kind—” 

“lam sure, mother,” I broke in, “ that we 
have reason to like him, and to be grateful to 
him.” 

She made no answer. 

“Is it not generous and noble on his part to 
ask me to be his wife at the very moment when 
— when loss and trouble have fallen upon us ?” 


“ Do you think he is the only one that could 
be so generous ? Love does not reckon and 
balance in that way.” 

“I can not be insensible or unmoved by it, 
mother.” 

“ That is pity and gratitude. Gervase is too 
chameleon-like. He has no holdfast in himself. 
He takes his colors from those he is with, and 
sways backward and forward weakly.” 

“ He has been steadfast enough to father,” I 
said, with a little touch of indignation ; for I 
thought she was hard on Gervase. 

“ Against what temptation to be otherwise ? 
His is just the nature to flatter itself that it is 
devoted to friendship at the very moment it is 
simply following the current of its own inclina- 
tions. But I will not vex you, my child. If 
you loved him indeed — ” 

She stopped and returned my glance with a 
wan half smile. “No, Anne ; you do not love 
him. Ah, no, no, no! If you loved him, I should 
be anxious and uneasy. Many things would 
conspire to make me so — things that I am only 
now beginning to see in their true light. But 
as it is — hard! Was that your father’s bell? 
Is he stirring yet ?” 

Mother glided out of the room and up the 
stairs with a light, stealthy tread. 

The idea of my father’s waking, and all that 
it involved, came to banish, in a measure, the 
thoughts called up by the conversation that had 
just come to an end. They remained in abey- 
ance, as it were. I listened breathlessly for a 
long time. There was no sound to be heard 
up stairs. Mother must have been mistaken, 

I thought. I stole up to the door of my pa- 
rents’ chamber. It was open, and I entered 
softly. Father was up and dressed, sitting by 
a little table on ^yhich he leaned his elbows, 
while his face was hidden in his hands. A cup 
of tea stood untasted beside him. Mother was 
bending over him, with her hand upon his 
head. She looked up as I entered, but said • 
no word. 

Presently my father groaned aloud. “Go 
away and leave me, Lucy. I am a wretch. 
You can never forgive me. You must hate 
me.” 

“ Oh, George, if you knew what a knife you 
plunge into my heart when you say so ! Though 
I know, darling, you don’t mean it — yet I can 
not bear to hear the words.” 

“I do mean it. You must hate me. You 
ought to hate me.” 

“Hate you, my own one! Oh, George, 
George ! if I could hate you, whom should I 
love ?” 

“Those who have done you good, and not 
evil — who have not ruined and disgraced you 
and your child — your father.” And he groaned 
again in his miser}". It Avas the first time that 
he had vmluntarily mentioned my grandfather 
for many a long day, and I noted it. 

“ You knoAv, George,” returned mother, Avith 
a quiet air of conviction, “ that you are the first 
and dearest in the world to me. It would be 


ANNE FURNESS. 


1)7 


late in the day for you to begin to doubt that, 
or for me to protest it.” 

“ So much the worse for you, my poor girl ! 
So much the worse — so much the worse.” 

Mother took up the cup and offered it to his 
parched lips. “Take some tea, dear George,” 
she said. “ It will do you good.” 

He turned away with a gesture of disgust. 
“Pah!” he exclaimed ; .‘il can’t touch it. I 
can’t touch any thing, unless — Get me some 
brandy.” He saw me standing hesitatingly 
just within the door, as he turned his head 
away from the cup mother was proffering to 
him, and fixed a haggard gaze on me. 

What a face it was that I saw ! White, with 
burning eyes and stubbly beard, and wild, un- 
kempt hair! Father seemed to have grown 
ten years older since yesterday. 

“Is that you, Anne?” he said, hoarsely. 
“ Poor lass ! It is a hard thing to have to be 
ashamed of thy father.” 

“Ashamed!” echoed my mother, fixing a 
kindling eye on me as though to prompt me to 
protest against the word. But I was tongue- 
tied. I could not utter a syllable. 

“Ay, Lucy, ashamed. The girl would fain 
tell a lie and deny it, but she can not. You 
may thank God for that, Lucy. I mind the 
time when I could not have told a lie to save 
my life. Oh-h-h!” 

He uttered a long-drawn, quivering sigh, 
partly extorted by bodily pain ; for as he closed 
his heavy eyelids and pressed his hands to his 
brow, it was easy to see that he was suffering 
from a racking headache. 

“ Won’t you try to take any thing, my dar- 
ling?” said mother, in a coaxing tone. “And 
let me bathe your forehead. There — so. That’s 
my own dear. Poor, burning forehead !” 

She drew his head on to her breast as if*he 
had been a child, and steeped her handkerchief 
in some sweet waters and laid it on his brow. 
Father remained passive for a second or two. 
Then his broad, strong chest began to heave, 
and the great veins stood out on his forehead 
like cords, and he burst into a terrible passion 
of tears. Terrible it was — very terrible to me, 
to see the powerful man’s frame gasping and 
struggling, and to hear his laboring sobs. 

“Oh, Lucy, Lucy, you are an angel from 
heaven ! Oh, my poor, gentle Lucy ! I — 
shall — die,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, and 
drawing a long gasping breath between every 
two or three words. 

Mother made a sign for me to go away.. As 
I closed the door I saw her kneel down on the 
floor and put her arms round my father, and I 
heard the murmur of her voice lavishing every 
fond and loving epithet upon him she could 
think of, and beseeching him te be comforted.. 

Down stairs I found Mr. Lacer, who had just 
arrived. He asked for my father, and how Mrs. 
Furness was this morning, in nearly his ordi- 
nary tone. Then he looked at me wistfully, 
and said : 

“How I wish, my dearest, that it were any 
G 


comfort to you to know that I love you better 
than all the world besides ! That your happi- 
ness and welfare are the dearest wish of my 
heart ! Well, Anne, I will say no more at this 
moment if it distresses you. But — you will 
owe me some kindness for my patience, Anne ? 
Throw me a crumb or two of hope to live on, 
won’t you? Not even a kind look?” 

This tone was distasteful to me. And as I 
felt that it was so — as I shrank away from the 
hand he stretched forth to take mine, mother’s 
words came into my head: “You don’t love 
him, Anne. Ah, no, no, no !” I own to a per- 
verse vexation on remembering them. I was 
unreasonable, irritable, and altogether out of 
tune. But I made a struggle to conceal, if I 
could not overcome, the feeling. 

Mr. Lacer began to move restlessly about the 
room. Now looking out of the window into the 
flower-garden ; now idly fluttering the leaves 
of some books of prints that lay on the side- 
table. Where was my father? Was he not 
coming down ? A headache ? Well, some soda- 
water and brandy would cure that, and the fresh 
air ; or, if not cured, it must be endured. Time 
was precious, and the morning was slipping 
away. 

“ What is there to be done that is so press- 
ing ? Must my father go into Horsingham ?” I 
asked. 

“ Yes, yes ; he must go, of course. And so 
must I. I have appointments with — several 
people. And this is the last race-day, and the 
Horsingham Plate will be run for at three — ” 
Mr. Lacer checked himself, and turned away 
abruptly to the window. 

“ Oh, you are not going — father is not going 
again to that dreadful race-course ?” 

“ I don’t suppose Furness need show there.” 

“ But you ? Are you going ?” 

“ I must he answered, sharply, and with an 
impatient frown on his face. 

A week ago I should have remonstrated 
against this resolution. Now I felt it was im- 
possible for me to assume any privilege of inti- 
mate friendship with Gervase Lacer. His stern- 
ness displeased me less than his tenderness. 
And again mother’s words rang in my ears: 
“ You do not love him, Anne. Ah, no, no, no !” 

“ I wash,” said I, after a minute’s pause, 
“that grandfather were here.” 

Gervase turned quickly, and asked, with ea- 
gerness, “Has Doctor Hewson been here? 
When did you see him last ?” 

“ He has not been at Water-Eardley for 
m.any weeks. Mother spoke of sending for 
him. But she feared it might displease my fa- 
ther if she did so without consulting him. And 
now, less than ever, would she dream of disre- 
garding father’s wishes. So she waited until 
she should be able to ask him about it, and 
hear what he would say,’’ 

“She was right. She was quite right.” 

“ I should like grandfather to be at hand on 
her account. But self is her last consideration 
alwavs. ” 


98 


ANNE FURNESS. 


‘ ‘ I trust that I should wish that which was best 
for her and you. But — I have no reason to de- 
tiire Doctor Hewson’s presence for ray own sake.” 

“You? Why not?” 

“ He is an enemy of mine — or, at least, no 
friend.” 

I was taken by surprise, and felt that I flushed 
and stammered as I tried to combat this asser- 
tion. I had a secret conviction that it was true, 
although I could not in the least tell how I had 
arrived at the conviction. 

“ I do not think grandfather ever saw you in 
his life. How can he be your enemy ? Enemy ! 
Grandfather is too just and too. sensible to en- 
tertain a baseless prejudice. And why should 
he be prejudiced against one who — who has 
shown such friendship for my parents ?” 

“Hm!” muttered Mr. Lacer, with closed 
lips, and tapping his foot impatiently on the 
floor. “But did it never strike you, Anne, 
that Doctor Hewson might not be disposed to 
like one who cherished a warmer feeling than 
friendship for your parents’ daughter ?” 

“How could he know — ?” I began, hastily, 
and left my sentence unfinished. 

“ Ha !* Then you think that if he did know 
he would not approve ? So think I. You need 
not try to deny it, Anne. It is no news to me.” 

“But—” 

“And as to knowing — why, do you suppose 
all Horsingham does not know that I am your 
suitor?” 

“All Horsingham,” I answered, coldly, “con- 
cerns itself very little wdth me or my affairs, I 
am confident.” But though I spoke coldly, my 
heart was throbbing painfully, and I felt some 
hot tears well up into my eyes. All my shy 
pride was in arms at the idea thus abruptly pre- 
sented to me of having furnished food for vul- 
gar gossip, and of my name having been bandied 
from mouth to mouth accompanied by comments 
and speculations and suppositions, whereof the 
most good-natured would have been humilia- 
ting in my eyes. I do not justify this over-sens- 
itive pride. I merely faithfully record it. 

I think he perceived that he had vexed me, 
for he said that he would go round to the sta- 
ble-yard and hasten Flower in putting the horse 
into the gig, and by the time the vehicle was 
ready he supposed that father also would* be 
ready to accompany him to Horsingham. And 
so left me. 

Presently my father and mother came down 
stairs. Father was ready to go, he said. The 
servant had brought him word that Mr. Lacer 
was waiting for him. But in a very few min- 
utes Mr. Lacer came hurrying into the house 
declaring that he could not find Flower, and 
that the two women-servants said they had not 
seen him that morning. 

Father was sitting huddled together on the 
sofa, holding his hat in his hand. He scarcely 
raised his eyes at Mr. Lacer’s intelligence. 

“ Is the mare in the stable ?” asked my mo- 
ther. Yes ; the mare was safe in the stable, 
but Flower was nowhere to be seen. 


“It’s my belief the fellow has bolted,” ex- 
claimed Mr. Lacer. Father muttered some- 
thing about a falling house, and the rats flying 
from it ; but neither rose nor moved. 

“Well, what is to be done? We must get 
into Horsingham somehow,” cried Mr. Lacer, 
after standing irresolutely for a few seconds 
looking from one to the other. “If you will 
tell me where to find the harness. I’ll put the 
horse into the gig myself.” 

“Is it absolutely necessary that you should 
go to Horsingham this morning?” I asked. 

Mr. Lacer looked at my father as though ex- 
pecting him to answer. But as father remained 
passive in the same bowed, despondent attitude, 
Mr. Lacer replied himself, with some heat, “I 
have told you that it is absolutely necessary for 
me. As to Furness, he must do as he pleases. 
But I should think there can be no doubt about 
his having to show. I took it for granted. I 
came out here on purpose to accompany him to 
town. You can tell Mrs. Furness and your 
daughter whether or not you ought to go, can’t 
you ?” he added, turning to my father with an 
impatient shrug. I felt that his impatience was 
justified. After all, he was here on our busi- 
ness — to serve us. 

“I must go,” said father, rising up from the 
sofa. He followed Mr. Lacer slowly from the 
room. 

“George — George, darling! say ‘good-by !’” 
cried my mother from the window, as the two 
men passed through the garden on their way to 
the stable-yard. Father stopped, turned, hesi- 
tated. Mother held out an imploring hand to 
him, and he came straight up to the open win- 
dow, raised his tall figure to its full height, and, 
taking mother in his arms, pressed his lips to 
her forehead. 

“ Oh, Lucy, Lucy,” he murmured, “ how 
much better for you, my poor, dear lass, if this 
was the last ‘good-by,’ and you could be quit 
of me !” 

He was gone before she could say a word. 
Mother’s face was blanched to a deadlier white 
than it had worn that morning ; and as she 
withdrew her head into the room again she 
shivered from head to foot, although the hot 
sunshine had been pouripg its rays directly upon 
her. 

I stole up to her side and took her hand. 
She returned the pressure of mine, but we did 
not speak for some time. There was still that 
shade between us to which I have alluded ; for 
although it had never for a moment entered my 
thoughts to utter a reproach against my father, 
she knev/ that reproaches were in my heart — 
that my yearning compassion for her almost 
implied a reproach to him who had caused her 
so to suffer. This same slight shade between 
us had not been lessened by our conversation 
about Gervase Lacer. It seemed to me that 
mother’s devotion to her husband made her un- 
just toward her husband’s friend, and that she 
accepted Gervase’s good offices with scant grat- 
itude. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


“ Do you know what father has been obliged 
to go to Horsingham for, mother dear?” I ask- 
ed at length. 

“ To meet the men who have claims on him,” 
she answered, briefly. 

“The — the tradesmen?” 

“ No, no, child — the men he has lost money 
to. My poor darling — my poor George ! He 
who was afraid to look no man in the, face. 
And now — He dreaded meeting these people 
so. He told me that he was going with a feel- 
ing of death at his heart.” 

“But he will be able to meet these claims ?” 

“If we sell the clothes off our backs, they 
shall be met ! Surely there is property enough 
here to suffice. I told him that there is no sac- 
rifice we will shrink from to save him from dis- 
grace and humiliation. We will blot out the 
past — and forget it.” 

“And then, mother dearest, if we go away 
to some distant place, and begin life anew — ” 

“ Yes, yes ; that is what I told him. I begged 
him to look forward. You would not repine, 
my Anne ?” 

“ I should thank God with all my heart for 
any change that promised you peace of mind.” 

“And peace of mind for father. You must 
pray God for dear father.” 

“And for dear father.” 

“That’s my precious treasure!” cried mo- 
ther, throwing her arms around me and press- 
ing me to her breast. “Poor, dear, dear fa- 
ther! He loves you so, Anne. You were al- 
ways his pet from a baby. He thought more 
of you than of any of the little ones that were 
born before you — more even than of our blessed 
little Harold. Do you know, Anne, that he 
wears a little flaxen lock of hair, like the down 
of a wee yellow fledgeling, that was cut off your 
head when you were two years old ; and now 
look at the thick dark brown tresses! Well, 
father wears that flaxen baby hair in a little 
plain locket on his breast. He is so proud of 
you, Anne ; and it w'ould break his heart to be- 
lieve that you no longer loved him.” 

The tears were pouring down her cheeks. But 
the constraint which had fettered her tongue 
was broken, and she talked, and wept, and eased 
her poor aching heart. And after a while she 
grew very calm, and I saw with thankfulness 
that her face had quite lost the rigid, stony look 
it had worn since last night. 

“And will you not send to grandfather?” I 
asked. “Did you speak to father about doing 
so?” 

“Yes; I said a few words. George had a 
confused idea that he had heard that my father 
was absent from Horsingham. But I will write 
to him. After to-day, when your father is 
more settled, he will meet your grandfather, 
and talk with him.” 

Then I coaxed mother to take a little stroll 
with me in the shade of the trees by the river- 
side meadows. The whole place was steeped 
in peace and sunshine. Not a creature was to 
be seen. Every one who could get leave was 


oa 

away at the race-course. We had no fear of 
coming upon Flower’s insolent face. He was 
gone, it seemed, for good. I thought afierward 
that we had all taken his desertion wiili much 
indifference. It had scarcely caused even sur- 
prise. But we had no emotion to sj)are for 
Flower. The only sensation his absence cau ed 
in me was one of relief. And I believe mother 
felt as I did. 

The sweet influence of the country sights* 
and sounds, and of the serene autumn day, 
came down upon us despite of all. 

Before we returned to the house mother and 
I had actually begun building castles in the 
air, to be inhabited in the new days that lay be- 
fore us. 

As we crossed the flower-garden we bad a 
glimpse of a hired fly from Horsingham driving 
quickly up the avenue that led to the front-door. 
A hired fly was so unusual an apparition at our 
gates that we both stopped in surprise to look 
at it. As we did so the vehicle stop])ed also, 
Mr. Lacer jumped out of it, and ran toward us. 

“Don’t be frightened!” he cried, breathless- 
ly; for mother was alarmed and trembling. 

“George?” she exclaimed. “Where is 
George?” 

“He’s quite well. He’s all right. I left him 
in Horsingham. There’s nothing the imifter, 
on my word. But I — I want to say a word 
to you and Anne.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

“A FRESH trouble?” said my mother, seat- 
ing herself in the little sitting-room, in the 
place where father had sat last night, .she 
clasped her hands and leaned them on th • laUe 
before her. Mr. Lacer placed himself o; jmsite 
to her, and I sat down on the sofa by her side. 

“No, not a fresh trouble,” answered Mr. 
Lacer. “At least it need not be one, if you 
are collected and firm, as I am sure you uill 
be.” 

He spoke eagerly, and yet with a certain em- 
barrassment and abstraction, as though he had 
something to say which it was not easy to put 
into words, and were casting about in his n.iiid 
how to say it. 

“A trouble that it is in my power to avert !” 
exclaimed mother, with an incredulous shake 
of the head. 

“Exactly. Yes, it is entirely in your jiow- 
er, and Anne’s, to avert it,” anstvered IMr. 
Lacer, catching at her words. 

We sat silent and expectant. 

“The fact is — ” began Mr. Lacer, and then 
stopped, and began to pull to pieces a flower 
he wore in his button-hole. All at once he 
looked up with an air of decision. “Yes,” he 
muttered, “ there’s no time to be lost. I 
must come to the point at once, Mrs. Furness. 
Your husband’s liabilities are very heavy — very 
heavy indeed. Of course you were prepared 
to hear that. Race-horses are not bought and 



^ ^ 


100 


AKNE FURNESS. 


trained for nothing. And then he has had the 
devil’s own luck, poor Furness! Well, now a 
way of meeting those liabilities has been sug- 
gested — by Whiffles and others — and I started 
off w'ithout loss of time to — to warn you, you 
know, and to beg you on no account to con- 
sent to it. Though I’m sure — quite confi- 
dent — that your own sense would tell you to 
resist.” 

“ Resist !” echoed my mother, quietly. She 
kept her eyes fixed on his face, and a little 
faint color flushed up into her cheek as she 
spoke that one word, and then it faded, and 
she sat pale and still again. 

“Yes, resist. If not for your owm sake — 
I’m afraid that wouldn’t weigh with you — for 
your daughter’s.” 

The color rose again, more brightly this 
time, in mother’s face, and she put her hand 
out and took mine, but without withdrawing 
her eyes from Mr. Lacer’s face. 

“Well,” said the latter, a little impatiently, 
“I suppose you can guess what it is that has 
been suggested ?” 

“I am very ignorant and inexperienced in 
business matters — more so, I’m afraid, than 
most Avomen,” answered mother, humbly. 
“Pray explain to me, as simply as possible — ” 

“Oh, it is simple enough. You are only to 
be asked to give up your marriage settlement.” 

The hand that held mine tightened its grasp 
with a start, but mother did not yet look at 
me. I remained perfectly still. 

“ Give up — ! But can I ?” asked mother, in 
a trembling voice. 

“ Can you, indeed ? You may well ask, dear 
Mrs. Furness. The notion is a preposterous 
one, I Avas sure you Avould feel it to be so.” 

But though the Avords Avere confident, the 
tone in Avhich Mr. Lacer said them was by no 
means so. He kept giving quick, restless 
glances at me, and pulling the stalk of the 
floAver, from Avhich the petals had long disap- 
peared, into long fibrous strips. 

“ No ; but I mean — can I ? Have I the 
poAver to do this? I thought that a settlement 
was binding — irrevocable.” 

“In your case it can be done — could be 
done,” he said, hastily, correcting his phrase, 
“Avith your daughter’s consent. Anne is of 
age.” 

“ Three days ago.” 

“ But of course I need not point out to you 
the folly— the madness, I may say — of such a 
course. It Avould leave you utterly without 
any provision. It is not to be thought of.” 

“You knoAV,” said mother, sloAvly, “that 
George has the hope — almost the certainty, in- 
deed — of a situation in Scotland ?” 

“ In Scotland I” 

“ Did he not tell you of it? You knoAA-, at 
all eventf’,, that he has for some time past been 
thinking of giA’ing up this place, and seeking 
employment ?” 

“Yes, I knoAv that.” 

“ Through my father’s influence such a place 


as Ave Avere looking for has been found for 
George — through my father’s influence, and 
that of a dear ymung friend of his, Donald 
Ayrlie.” 

Mr. Lacer’s face changed, and a loAvering 
expression came over it Avhich I had never seen 
there before. “Oh!” he exclaimed, shortly. 

“So that, you see,” pursued mother, still in 
the same sIoaa", quiet manner, “avc should not 
be destitute even if — the settlement Avere to be 
given up.” 

“Good Heavens, Mrs. Furness, you don’t 
mean to say you contemplate such a step !” 

“It does not rest Avith me,” ansAvered mo- 
ther : and Avith that she relinquished my hand, 
and rose and Avalked to the AvindoAV, where she 
stood Avith her back to u§, looking into the gar- 
den. 

“Anne!” cried Mr. Lacer, surely un- 

derstand that this would be fatal — simply fatal.” 

“Fatal to Avhom?” I asked, in a Ioav voice. 

I saAv in mother’s attitude, in the turn of her 
head, in the tension of the hand Avhich leaned 
on the Avindow-sill, that she Avas listening Avith 
a painful concentration of attention. But she 
remained AA'ith her back to us, looking out into 
the garden. 

“ Fatal to Avhom ? Fatal to all! Only think 
of it ! Why', it seems too absurd to argue the 
thing.” 

“ What did my father say^ ? Hoav did he re- 
ceive the proposition ?” I saAV the hand upon 
the AvindoAv-sill move nervously. 

“Oh, Furness at once saAv the matter in it^ 
true light. He rejected the idea altogether — 
at Jirst." 

The hand on the AvindoAV-sill stopped its quick 
movement suddenly, and the bent head Avas bent 
a little loAver. 

“He has too much sense and good feeling 
not to have done so,” went on Mr. Lacer, fol- 
loAA'ing the direction of my glance toward the 
AvindoAA', and speaking w’ith emphasis. “And 
this ought to be considered — that Furness him- 
self AA'ould be the first to regret such a step aft- 
erAvard, Avhen excited. Quixotic feelings had 
had time to cool.” 

“My father rejected the plan? Then Avhy 
did you hurry here to Avarn us against it ?” 

'■'■At Jirst, I said — he rejected it at first. But 
Whiffles pressed it, and played upon his feelings 
so : and made out that it Avas the only chance — 
the only chance for /u’/n, he meant. That was 
merely his selfishness. Of course he’ll be a 
loser; but he took a certain risk. He kneAV 
that Furness AA'as not a millionaire.” 

“ I Avonder,” said I, “ hoAv Mr. Whiffles came 
to know any thing about my' mother's marriage 
settlement.” I spoke in all simplicity', but my^ 
AA'ords had a strange effect on Mr. Lacer. His 
face greAv dark crimson from broAV to chin, and 
he turned aAV'ay and Avalked across the room 
once or tAvice before he ansAA'ered. When at 
length he did so it Avas Avith a curious air AA'liich 
I can scarcely describe — as if he Avere reph'ing 
impulsively and instantly upon my words', in- ' 


ANNE FURNESS. 


stead of having suffered a minute or so to elapse 
before speaking. 

“Wonder! There’s no cause for wonder. 
The fact that Dr. Hewson’s daughter had a mar- 
riage settlement is well enough known. It is 
no secret. I — I may have mentioned it in 
W hiftles’s presence myself, for aught I know. 
Any way, he is aware of it. And he means to 
try to' make use of it for his own interest. But 
if you and Mrs. Furness are only firm — as you 
Avill be, I am sure, dear Anne, remembering 
that it is your duty, your plain duty toward your 
parents — Master Whiffles will take nothing by 
his move.” 

“There would not be property here sufficient 
to meet all demands? I mean, by giving up 
every thing — farm, house, stock, furniture, 
every thing ?” 

“ It can’t be done ! I mean there are claim- 
ants enough in Horsingham to swallow up all 
that, and more. No ; your father must just 
quietly go through the Bankruptcy Court. He 
has been unfortunate. Well, men are unfortu- 
nate sometimes. It can’t be helped. The thing 
is done every day.” 

“Mother,” said I, getting up from my seat, 
and going a step or two toward her, “ if you 
are willing to give up this settlement, I agree 
to it with all my heart. ” 

“My child!” “Anne!” exclaimed mother 
and Gervase Lacer simultaneously, but in very 
different tones. 

“I agree to it with all my heart.” 

“ Anne, you are mad ! Mrs. Furness, you 
won’t let her sacrifice herself in that way!” 
cried Mr. Lacer, looking from me to mother, 
with a countenance of the greatest agitation. 

Mother had turned round from the window, 
and was standing opposite to me. She kept 
clasping and unclasping her hands with piteous 
irresolution. She had been calm and strong 
up to this point, but now her own strong incliu’- 
ation to the step made her suspect the right- 
eousness of it. For her to practice self-abne- 
gation was so habitual that it appeared to her 
impossible that her duty could in this case co- 
incide with the secret yearnings of her heart. I 
understood it all ; and I assumed an air of de- 
cision and self-will, in the hope of strengthen- 
ing her in this conflict of feeling. 

“I am not in the least mad, Mr. Lacer,” I 
said, haughtily. “This plan approves itself to 
my reason and to my conscience. And I very 
soberly and sanely intend to carry it out — with 
my mother’s permission.” 

“My child! my child! ought I ? — is it right 
that you should beggar yourself?” 

“ Mother dear, don’t let us allow words to 
frighten us out of our senses. Beggar myself! 
What does that mean ? I shall not have to beg 
any more than I should have had to beg if you 
had had no marriage settlement — which might 
easily have happened. Besides, it is your money 
that is in question ; if you are content to devote 
it to a just and ’honest purpose, who has a right 
to oppose you ?” 


Gervase Lacer stood biting his mustache, and 
looking at me from beneath bent brows. 

“Anne,” he said, in a stifled kind of voice, 
“you say a good deal about ‘reasons’ and 
‘justice:’ don’t they suggest to you that I 
have a right to be heard f' 

“A right!” 

• “You are very cold and statue-like in your 
pride and self-will ; but 1—1 am made of flesh 
and blood, and — and — I think you are using mo 
badly.” 

“ No, Gervase,” cried niy mother, putting her 
hand on his shoulder. “No ! Don’t say that. 
We appreciate your motives. Of course I un- 
derstand that you desired to serve Anne and me 
in coming here to say what you have said.” 

He gave a short, bitter laugh, and moved his 
shoulder — not roughly— from beneath her hand. 
“Thank you,” he said. “ That’s kind!” 

“You are angry with us,” said mother, gen- 
tly. 

“Angry! I am hurt, and vexed, and dis- 
heartened. I don’t deny it.” The tears posi- 
tively rose in his eyes as he spoke, and he turn- 
ed away and sat down, resting his head on his 
hand. 

I was sorry for him, and I would have soothed 
him if I could, even at some cost of the pride he 
charged me with. But it was not easy to me 
to find words that should avail. I went up to 
him, and held out my hand. “ Don’t take it in 
this way,” I said. “ You may think me foolish 
and mistaken, but you ought not to be hurt that 
I reject your advice. I don’t thank you the less 
for It.” 

He caught my hand and held it as he an- 
swered, with a sudden return of eagerness and 
animation, “Anne, dearest Anne, I implore 
you not to be rash. Don’t be led away by a 
mistaken idea of generosity ! Or if you must 
be generous,” he added, tenderly, raising his 
handsome eyes to mine, “be a little generous 
to me!'' 

“I have no power to be generous. But I 
shall try to do what my conscience tells me to 
be right.” 

. “But this sacrifice is not right — can not be 
right!” he cried. And then he went over all 
the arguments he could think of to show me what 
wretched consequences must result from giving 
up the settlement. He spoke chiefly — almost 
solely — to me ; merely throwing in an occasion- 
al appeal to mother to confirm what he was say- 
ing. Mother looked painfully distressed. I 
understood the mental struggle she was under- 
going. 

I listened patiently until he ceased. Then I 
said, “ But granting all you say to be true — I 
think it exaggerated, but let that pass — even so, 
I see no reason to refrain from giving up this 
money. No — pray don’t interrupt me ! Hear 
me first. All you show me is that I should be 
very poor, and perhaps have to labor for my 
bread. Well, there are worse evils than that !” 

“ Anne ! you talk like a child.” 

“ Not so ; I know what poverty is, and what 


102 


ANNE FURNESS. 


haiKl work is. I have seen both. There is a 
great iiope, as you have heard, of my father ob- 
taining a good situation. I don’t despair, at 
all events, of his finding some employment. I 
can look the future in the face. But could I do 
so if my father’s good name for uprightness and 
honesty were to be destroyed ? See, Mr. Lacer; 
perhaps to your town-bred notions all this seems 
overs! rained. But we are country folks. My 
fa her’s fathers have lived on the land for gen- 
erations, and no man could say a word to black- 
en i heir good name. Furness, of Water-Eard- 
Icy — it was as clear and bright as the sun at 
nooiiilay.” 

“ Why, Anne, let us speak plainly, since it 
must be so. Don’t you know that all that is 
over ? Don’t you understand ? Why, your 
father’s name will be in every mouth in Hors- 
inghani before this evening ! If you make this 
sacrifice in the hope of stopping people’s tongues, 
yon will make it in vain.” 

Thie tears poured down my mother’s cheeks, 
and she hid her face in her hands. 

I was shocked by this tone ; it made my 
heart sink heavily. “I’m afraid,” said I, 
“ that we shall not be able to understand each 
other aright. ‘ Stopping people’s tongues !’ Do 
you suppose that is what I chiefly care for ? We 
can not help their talking. I would prevent 
that if I could; I don’t pretend not to mind 
it. But it is not merely what people will say. 
There is a real right and wrong that remains, 
let them say what they will. How can we 
keep money that is not justly ours? Would it 
make us happy to enjoy comforts that had Been 
— stolen f 

“Pshaw! It is not stealing to hold your 
own.” 

“Nothing is ours so long as we are in debt.” 

“If your father gives up his own propert}’’, 
surely that is as much as his creditors can ex- 
pect!” 

“ You have told me that there is not sufficient 
to satisfy all claims. Besides, I can not separate 
my interests from my parents.” 

“And you think nothing of me? You care 
not one straw^ — ” Mr. Lacer sprang to his 
feet, wiping his heated forehead with his hand- 
kerchief, and began to walk wildly about the 
room, talking and gesticulating in much ex- 
citement. “ It is heartless ! Cruel ! And for 
your own sake ! Was ever such madness heard 
of? Good God! what can I say to persuade 

I stared at him in bewilderment. 

“ What does this mean ?” I asked at length. 
“ What possesses you ?” 

He came to me and took hold of my wrist. 
“Anne! Darling Anne !” he cried. “Mrs. 
Furness! Speak to her! Make her promise 
to wait, to reconsider this folly. Her father 
will be here soon, and then it will be too late ! 
You know how I love her. You^wowjit! Don’t 
let this part us forever ! ” Then, as I stood speech- 
less, less from disinclination than positive inabil- 
ity to speak, he changed his tone again, and 


shook my arm, which he still grasped, so rough- 
ly and impetuously that he broke a little simple 
bracelet which I wore, and it fell rattling to the 
ground, while he reiterated, “Anne! Prom- 
ise not to do this thing ! Anne ! Do you hear 
me?” 

“Gervase! Mr. Lacer!” said my mother, 
tremblingly. He released my wrist, or rather 
threw it from him, and folding his arms, stood 
looking at me and biting his mustache. 

“Well,” said he at length, in a bitter, an- 
gry manner, “I have done what I can. You 
are resolved, I suppose, to follow your own way. 
As for me, I have to go away — almost imme- 
diately. Not that you will care for that !” 

I did not answer him ; but my mother ech- 
oed his words, “ You have to go away ?” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Furness ; I have spent too much 
of my life here already. I asked your daugh- 
ter to be my wife ; but — ^you and she must un- 
derstand that if she persists in this obstinate 
infatuation it will part us.” 

Mother looked quickly and anxiously at me. 
Gervase Lacer kept his eyes averted from me, 
and went on speaking, still in the same bitter, 
angry manner. It is needless to repeat his 
words. They were a revelation for me of the 
vast difference in his eyes between Anne Fur- 
ness comfortably dowered and Anne Furness 
without a penny. I was pained, deeply pained, 
and ashamed for him ; as in his passion and 
disappointment he forgot all his former protes- 
tations of disinterested devotion, and heaped 
accusations of heartlessness and hypocrisy upon 
me. I was pained and ashamed, and yet — 
yet at the bottom of my heart there was a feel- 
ing of relief! And the relief came from the 
clear certainty which rose in my mind that I 
had never loved him. No, no, no ! I had nev- 
er, never loved Gervase Lacer. If I had loved 
him, I think the shame and anguish of this 
would have broken my heart. 

Mother uttered a broken word or two of re- 
monstrance now and then, watching my face the 
while. But I remained quite silent under all 
the taunts and reproaches which Gervase show- 
ered' on me in his ungoverned temper. Perhaps 
my very silence exasperated him. 

“ It is all over,” he said, with his hand upon 
the lock of the door. “All over! I have tried 
— I did mean to change myself — to strive to 
undo the past and become worthy of you — or 
of what I thought you ! But your ‘ good’ peo- 
ple have no heart ! Hypocrisy and humbug ! 
Why should I care for the world’s good opinion ? 
There’s not one living soul cares whether I go 
headlong to the devil or not. You might have 
saved me by stretching out your hand. Why 
did you fool me on? You knew well enough 
— you all knew — what the bait was that drew 
me here ! But you may take this comfort to 
your conscience : let what will become of me 
now, it will lie at your door.” He dashed out 
of the room, and in a minute or so we heard 
the wheels of the fly rattling at a furious pace 
along the road to Horsingham. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


103 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

There had been two trustees under my mo- 
ther’s marriage settlement. One, old Mr. Ash- 
by — of whom mention has been made as being 
the former owner of the house in which Mr. 
Arkwright lived, now in the possession of 
Matthew Kitchen — was dead, and no successor 
to him in the trust had been appointed. The 
other trustee was Mr. Cudberry. Him I re- 
solved to see without delay. I was aware that 
his consent would be necessary to enable my 
mother and myself to give up the settlement. 

Mother, when this consideration had first 
been presented to her, had almost despaired. 

“Your uncle Cudberry will never consent, 
Anne!” she had exclaimed. “And I know 
well that he will say I am not doing my duty 
as a parent in allowing you to contemplate such 
a step for a moment.” 

“I do not despair, mother, of inducing him 
to cqjisent. And as to what he will say — we 
must bear it as well as we may. It would be 
far easier to follow one’s conscientious convic- 
tions if all one’s friends looked on approvingly. 
But it seems to me that one of the most neces- 
sary lessons to learn in life is to bear being 
blamed for doing right.” 

“But how are you to see Uncle Cudberry? 
How shall I send to him ?” 

“I will go to Woolling myself. Look here, 
mother darling; I want the matter to be set- 
tled by the time father returns. It will be easier 
and better for us all if you can meet him with 
the news that the thing is resolved upon than 
to leave it to him to broach the subject.” 

Mother kissed me fondly, but her eyes were 
full of tears. I was anxious to put an end to 
the irresolution which I knew would torment her 
until the matter should be irrevocably settled ; 
and I declared that I would set off at once. 

“ But how are you to go, Anne ? The horse 
is in town ; and, even if it were not. Flower is 
gone, and there is no one to drive you. What 
shall we do ?” 

“ Do ? I mean to walk to Woolling, mother. 
The day is fine. I know every inch of the 
road. Uncle Cudberry will send or bring me 
back. There is no difficulty. I shall really 
like the walk. It will do me good. Take care 
of yourself, dear mother. And if father returns 
before I come back, tell him that I hope to 
bring good news, and that I am quite cheerful 
and hopeful. I do believe that I see the be- 
ginning of the end of all our troubles!” 

It was a long walk from our house to Wool- 
ling, and the day was sunny, and the roads 
dusty. But I had said only the truth in declar- 
ing to my mother that I should like the walk. 
The air and exercise seemed to calm the ex- 
citement of my spirits, and my brain grew clear- 
er, and I was able to think with some calmness. 
At first it cost me an effort to enforce my 
wandering attention to the point I had to con- 
template — the arguments, namely, which were 
most likely to avail with Mr. Cudberry, and the 


probabilities for and against his consenting to 
my request. A thousand emotions and images 
distracted my thoughts, and made my pulse flut- 
ter. At length, when I reached a point in the 
road where a grassy lane intersected it, shaded 
by ancient trees, and quite deserted, I turned 
my footsteps aside on to its short, daisy-speckled 
sward, and sitting down on a hillock of moss that 
rose around the roots of an elm, I let my tears 
have way, and cried unrestrainedly. 

Then, having bathed my eyes and face in a 
little clear runlet that went gliding half-hidden 
in the long grass beneath the hedge, I arose and 
walked on, wonderfully refreshed and calmed, 
and so busied with my purpose that the first 
stile of the series that led across the Woolling 
meadows appeared close to me before I had 
thought I could have arrived within half a mile 
of it. 

Here I halted, and held brief debate with 
myself as to how I had best approach Mr. Cud- 
berry. I had a strong repugnance to entering 
the house and demanding a private interview 
with him, under a cross-fire of questions from 
the assembled family. If I could but find him 
wandering about the farm ! The corn was al- 
ready cut, or I should have been sure at that 
hour to find him among the reapers. All at 
once I heard the sound of a gun, and in anoth- 
er minute I saw Uncle Cudberry’s stooping fig- 
ure crossing the stubble, two fields off, followed 
by his old dog Ponto. I sprang over the stile, 
and ran as sAviftly as I could toward him, call- 
ing out, breathlessly : 

“Uncle Cudberry! Uncle Cudberry! Will 
you stop an instant? I want to speak to you.” 

His hearing was not very quick, but his eye- 
sight was as keen as ever ; and as soon as he 
became aware of my approach he recognized 
me instantly, as I perceived, and stood still, gun 
in hand, waiting for me to come up with him. 

“Why, Miss Anne,” said he, in his usual 
slow manner, “is it you? Nothing amiss at 
home, is there ?” 

“No. That is— ” ' 

“ Your mother all right ? Ah, well, get your 
breath a bit. It isn’t a pleasant running ground 
for a young lady, isn’t a stubble-field. Come 
along into the house. — Down, Ponto ! — The 
beast knows you. Come and get a — a sup of 
wine ; or maybe you’d like a drink of butter- 
milk best this warm day ?” 

“ If you don’t mind. Uncle Cudberry, I should 
like to say what I have to say to you out here, 
without going into the house.” 

He did not seem surprised. But then I nev- 
er remembered to have seen him exhibit any 
strong emotion of that sort. 

“Ah!” said he. “Well, if that’s to be it, 
we may as well go and set ourselves down in 
the shade, if w'e can find a bit. ’Tisn’t a vast 
sight o’ shade you’ll find on Woolling Farm — 
no hedgerows ; nothing but wire fences. My 
neighbor. Sir George, cusses ’em up hill and 
down dale every hunting season. But I don’t 
find as that injures the crops partic’larly, so I 


104 


ANNE FURNESS. 


let him cuss away. I’ve rode to hounds, too, 
in my day ; hut it was over other folks' lands. 
And, mind ye, I never destroyed a fox in my 
life. No, no ; the man don’t draw breath in 
this county as can say a Cudberry of Woolling 
was ever known to he a vulpicide, as the news- 
paper chaps call it ; and as I onderstand you 
got lessons in Latin from the parson at Hors- 
ingham, no doubt you know w’hat that means, 
IMiss Anne. But farming is farming, and fox- 
hunting is fox-hunting. And here we are, and 
we can set quiet here without having our brains 
fried in our skulls. You see, I pay you the 
compliment of s’posing you have some to be 
fried. Miss Anne. Tell you what, that’s more 
than I’d say of every young lady within a hun- 
dred miles around Brookfield parish church.” 

Talking on thus, in his slow, deliberate, dry 
tones, he had led the way to a large barn that 
stood in an isolated position on the edge of his 
farm, where it was bounded by one of the leafy, 
winding lanes I have spoken of as running 
through the country that lay at the back of the 
Cudbenys’ house. 

The wide doors of the barn stood open. 
Within, it looked dark and cool. Mr. Cudber- 
ry drew forward a truss of straw near to the 
doorway, and bade me sit down on it. Then 
he carefully rested his gun against the wall, 
first assuring me that it was unloaded, took off' 
his broad-brimmed felt hat, wiped his face and 
bald yellow head with a red cotton handker- 
chief, whistled to Ponto (who came and flung 
himself down w’ith a flapping noise on the barn 
floor), and finally sat down on a heap of straAV 
opposite to me, with his lean, gaitered legs 
stretched straight before him, his arms folded, 
and his eyes fixed vacantly on the sunny land- 
scape that lay before them, framed by the wide 
doorway. 

“ Abw,” said he, “let’s hear, 

I found it not easy to begin my task ; but its 
very difficulty spurred me to waste no words in 
preparatory speeches, but to plunge straight to 
the point. 

“Uncle Cudberry,” said I, “I want your 
consent, as my mother’s trustee, to our giving 
up her marriage settlement for the payment of 
father’s debts.” 

The leather gaiters, stretched out under my 
eyes, were not more absolutely devoid of any 
change in their tough surface than was Mr. 
Cudberry’s countenance. 

I paused and looked at him. He kept his 
eyes fixed in the same unseeing way on the 
landscape, and after a minute’s silence observed, 
in the tone of one admitting the truth of some 
incontrovertible assertion : 

“Old Ashby’s dead. Yes, he’s dead surely.” 

“He is dead, and no other trustee was ever 
appointed to replace him. The matter, there- 
fore, rests with you.” 

I went on to put before him, with what force 
I could, all the arguments in favor of his con- 
senting to the scheme. I was aware that he 
listened ; but I can not explain how I became 


aware of it, for his face remained as unchang- 
ing as if it had been carved in wood. 

When I ceased speaking he turned his eyes 
upon me — keen, hard, bright, black beads of 
eyes — and said, 

“Well, this is a ser’ous business.” 

The remark appeared to me superfluous — ^just 
one of those unmeaning, word-wasting phrases 
which are peculiarly irritating in motnents of 
decisive importance. I reflected, however, in 
time to check any manifestation of impatience, 
that although the events of the last forty-eight 
hours had left indelible traces in we, and had 
carried me forever beyond the hazy, dreamy, 
debatable border-land that lies between child- 
hood and womanhood, yet they could not have 
been expected to work any magical change in 
old Mr. Cudberry. 'That wdiich he had been 
yesterday he was to-day, and would be to-mor- 
row. 

“Yes,” said I, shortly ; “ it is most serious.” 

“A pretty kind of a market your father has 
brought his pigs to ! I had heard something of 
this. But it’s ■worse than I could ha’ credited. 
’Bout as bad as can be, I reckon — hey?” 

“Not quite. There might have been no 
means of paying all claims. At all events, Ave 
have this moneys — mother’s money — and we are 
resolved to give it up, if you will consent.” 

“ Why — have you thought what you’re ask- 
ing? Your mother, you know, she’s that soft 
and that fond of George as she’d give him her 
skin, or the two eyes out of her head. Ah, she 
would ! and then say as it was he was to be pit- 
ied for having a blind wife. What differences 
there is in Avomen!” added Mr. Cudberry, con- 
templatively. “But as for you, you knoAv,” he 
resumed, more briskly, “ it’s a horse of another 
color. You ain’t bound to give up your for- 
tin — ’tis but a little bit o’ money, but still all 
ou’ve got to look to — nor nobody Avouldn’t 
think o’ blaming you if you didn’t.” 

“As for blame or praise. Uncle Cudberry — 
the blame or praise of people Avho knoAv little 
about us, and care less — I have made up my 
mind not to take that into consideration at 
all.” 

“Ah, well, my lass, I don’t knoAv but what 
you’re in the right of it. It’s the principle I’ve 
acted on — not quite all my life, I Avon’t say, but 
for many a long year past — and I found it an- 
SAver. You do what suits yourself. The Avorld 
’ll come round to it in the long-run. As for 
the talk and jabber o’ fools, it’s like my neigh- 
bor Sir George’s cussing and SAvearing — it don’t 
hurt no man’s crops, that don’t.” 

“Then, Uncle Cudberry — ” 

*‘*‘Only — only you must be cock-sure as Avhat 
you’re doing will suit yourself! There’s the 
main point. Folks make terrible mistakes in 
haste, and repent ’em at leisure.” 

I repeated all my arguments with what pa- 
tience I could muster, and then Mr. Cudberry 
began to talk in his turn. 

The hours were passing, and my father Avould 
return home, and my mother Avould be aAvaiting 


ANNE* FURNESS. 


105 


me with wearing anxiety. But it was vain to 
hope to spur Mr. Cudberry’s mind to quicken 
its cautiously slow pace. It was vain to hope 
to check his tedious iteration by the assurance 
that I had already perceived and considered 
the objections he presented to me, and that they 
had not availed to shake my resolution. It 
was vain to hope to gather from his voice, or 
his face, or even from his words, what impres- 
sion I had made on him — what likelihood there 
was of his consenting to my petition. I forcibly 
controlled my quivering nerves, which would 
have prompted me to I know not what demon- 
strations of impatient excitement, and sat still, 
and held my tongue. 

At length I began to discern a little light — a 
little dim ray, that faintly struggled tlwough 
the semi-opaque medium of Uncle Cudberry’s 
speech and manner. In coming to make my 
appeal to him I had not reckoned on finding 
him lenient to my father, sympathetic with my 
mother, or indulgent toward my own strong 
wish in the matter. But I had founded some 
hope upon a trait which I knew to be a strongly 
marked one in the old man’s character — family 
pride. Oddly as it manifested itself, I well knew 
the feeling to exist in his breast, and to be, 
next to his love of power, and of money as pow- 
er, the feeling which most nearly approached to 
a passion in him. He was clannish. His wife’s 
relations, even to quite distant cousins, were in- 
cluded in his conception of “ the family.” Fur- 
ness of Water-Eardley had been an honored 
name in our county for generations, otherwise 
he would never have chosen one of that stock 
to be his wife. Of the greatness of his own an- 
cestors he had an idea which I believe would 
signally have amazed many of his grandee 
neighbors, could they have conceived its exist- 
ence. But Uncle Cudberry’s pride was of a 
very self-sufficing kind, and required no audi- 
ence. It pai-took, moreover, of the eccentricity 
and disdain for polite appearances which had 
grown up during a long life passed chiefly in 
rustic seclusion and among dependents and in- 
feriors. 

Gradually, as I have said, he allowed a glim- 
mer of his intentions to become apparent. 

“ You’re of age, you know — a woman grown, 
not a babby. You know, or might know, what 
it is you’re asking. I can’t be held responsi- 
ble like as if you was a child, or a giddy, vain, 
feather-headed thing like the most o’ the lasses. 
You’ve got sense and resolution. Better for 
your poor mother if she’d ha’ had a bit more 
o’ your sort o’ stuff in her. But that’s the 
Furness blood — never without a bit o’ mettle. 
Though maybe,” added Mr. Cudberry, with a 
shrewd glance from his bead-black eyes into 
my face — “ maybe it takes a wrong turn noAV and 
then, as in George’s case. If my wife’s nephew 
George had put his mettle into — growing wheat 
say, or mangold-wurzel (I doubt George’s is 
but poor wheat-land, most on it), or even kept 
steady to prize beasts, why things would ha’ 
gone very different. But he’s Furness of Wa- 


ter-Eardley, and — ’twould be a crying shame 
in the county-side for him to smash up like a 
poor peddling little counter-skipping Jack of a 
Horsingham tradesman, as can no more tell 
you who his great-grandfather was than I can 
say what my great-grandson will be !” 

“They talked of the Bankruptcy Court,” 
said I, not without a touch of stratagem — wo- 
man’s cunning it is called in books! — cunning 
being a weapon never used by men (in war or 
otherwise) when they are indubitably strong 
enough to do without it. But my cunning was 
not of a very deep or finished sort. That in- 
ner, superior “7/je,” the conscience that watched 
my actions and motives, pitilessly spoiled the 
effect of the stroke by making me blurt out: 
“But I don’t in my heart believe it would come 
to that, even without giving up the settlement. 
If we could not pay over the capital in a lump, 
we could and w'ould devote the income ; and 
creditors would not push us and press us beyond 
bearing. But still — ” 

“Ah! and Avho’s to guarantee the expendi- 
ture of a penny of the income on paying of 
debts? Why, child, there might come more 
race-horses — more Horsingham stakes — more 
strokes of luck^ good or bad. And would come ! 
Best make a clean sweep, and get George off 
to Scotland, or w'herever it be. Bankruptcy 
Court I Damn the Bankruptcy Court !” 

I knew that I had gained my point. 

Not yet, though, was I let to depart. There 
was to be no flush of victory — no return, in the 
heat of triumph, to solace poor mother’s trem- 
bling heart. Uncle Cudberry had much more 
to say — or, rather, to say the same things many 
more times — before he distinctly gave the con- 
sent which I had been sure of so long ago. 

At length he did give it — not, indeed, quite 
explicitly, but in terms which were sufficiently 
unmistakable to me. “Well, Anne, I shall 
come in to-morrow and meet the lawyer at 
Watei’-Eardley, or maybe bring him out to your 
father’s with me. I shall have a good deal to 
say to him. And I mustn’t get myself into a 
hobble, you understand. I must be clear in 
the eye of the law. That’s on’y fixir and just.” 
Such was his fashion of agreeing to the request 
that had been made to him. 

“Thank you. Uncle Cudberry, Avith all my 
heart !” I cried. “And mother Avill thank you 
too.” 

“You’re not a common kind of lass,” he an- 
SAvered, looking at me curiously. “You’re as 
pleased noAV as if I had given you a fortin, 
’stead o’ helping you to make aAvay Avith ’un. 
Some folks might call you a fool for your pains, 
and will, you may take your oath. But I don’t. 
No ; I’ve the name of being a close-fisted old 
chap. / know hoAv folks talk of me ; nobody 
better. But I tell ye Avhat, I’d rather at any 
time of ray life have married a Avoman as could 
give up her bit o’ cash for the honor of her fam- 
ily — ah, and have took her Avithout a farthing — 
than I’d have had the biggest heiress in the 
land, if she came of a bad stock, and had low 


106 


ANNE EURNESS. 


notions ! No ; I don’t think you a fool, Anne 
Eurness.” 

I was anxious to be gone homeward with 
my news. Mr. Cudberry did not again offer to 
take me into the house, but he insisted that I 
should have some refreshment. He would or- 
der Daniel to get ready the “sociable,” and 
meanwhile he would himself bring me some 
wine and some food, if I would wait there in 
the barn. He would take no denial ; and all 
I could obtain was his promise that Daniel 
should be ordered to make what speed he could 
in bringing the vehicle round for me. 

It was strange to me to wait alone in the 
great barn, watching Mr. Cudberry striding 
away on such an errand, and actually — yes, 
actually hurrying his pace ! It was stranger 
still to see him come back in a very brief space 
of time, carrying a covered basket on one arm, 
and a bottle of wine under the other, and to 
hear him press me to eat a bit of cold fowl, and 
to drink some of the wine he had brought, with 
really hospitable warmth. He had forgotten no- 
thing. There was bread and salt, and a bright 
glass goblet, into which he poured some of the 
pale yellow wine. “This,” said he, very delib- 
erately closing and then opening one eye, with- 
out stirring any other muscle of his face — which 
was his manner of winking — “ is neither cowslip 
nor raisin, my lass. This here is old sherry, as 
has been more than thirty‘years in my cellar. 
It’s as good a glass of pale sherry as is to be 
had in this county. You take a sup. Water? 
No ; hang me if you do ! The missis’s vint- 
ages are good enough to be drowned — this is 
meant to be drunk. If you want a drink o’ 
water, take a drink o’ water; but you don’t 
have none o’ my old East India sherry with it — 
not a sup! I hate waste, and that would be 
waste with a vengeance!” 

I ate and drank very willingly, and should 
have enjoyed my meal, being healthy and hun- 
gry and tired, had it not been for my impa- 
tience to be gone. At length I heard the 
sound of wheels. Daniel had been ordered to 
await me at the last stile that gave access from 
the farm to the high-road. Mr. Cudberry in- 
sisted on accompanying me across the fields, 
and on seeing me into the vehicle. 

“ Good-by, Uncle Cudberry. You will come 
to-morrow ?” 

“I will come to-morrow. — Drive Miss Eur- 
ness home to Water-Eardley, and take care of 
her, Dan’l.” 

As I waved my hand to him out of the so- 
ciable, he took of his felt hat, and stood bare- 
headed in the sunshine, looking after me until 
I was out of sight. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

My father had reached home about half an 
hour before I did. He had brought Mr. Whif- 
fles with him ; or, at any rate, Mr. Whiffles 
had come^ and was then in the garden. Eather 


had been greatly overcome on hearing of the 
errand I had gone upon ; had reproached him - 
self, and declared that such a sacrifice ought 
not to be made ; that Mr. Cudberry was bound 
to prevent it. But he had finally confessed 
that he saw no other way out of the difficul- 
ties that beset him — no other way to avoid 
disgrace, and, perhaps, a jail. Mr. Whiffles 
had stuck to him with the intention of making 
himself sure that father would, as he had prom- 
ised (afterward taking back his word, and then 
again giving it, in a terrible indecision and 
trouble of mind), make the proposition to mo- 
ther and myself. It had been at once a pang 
and a relief to my father to find his purpose an- 
ticipated. 

All this 'mother hurriedly poured into my 
ears as I was taking my hat and cloak off in 
my own room ; blessing me, kissing me, and 
crying over me — poor mother ! — all in a breath ; 
I, almost as hurriedly and incoherently, ex- 
changing for what she had to tell me my ac- 
count of what had passed at Woolling. 

“I’ll go and speak to your father, my dar- 
ling. He is wandering up and down his own 
room, so miserable and restless ! If he would 
but believe that there are better days in store ! 
But he can’t bring himself to look forward hope- 
fully yet. We must have patience.” 

Mother left me, and I went down stairs to 
see that some tea and cold meat were set forth, 
as she had bidden me. I found Mr. Whiffles 
in the sitting-room. He was dressed precisely 
as on the first occasion of my seeing him, and 
looked perhaps a shade redder about the face 
and thi'oat, and certainly a good many shades 
dingier about the tight orange-colored gloves. 

“ Your most obedient, miss,” said Mr. Whif- 
fles, voluntarily bowing, and involuntarily shak- 
ing his head at me. 

“ Good-evening,” said I. “ Will you not sit 
down? They are getting some refreshment. 
The meal will be ready immediately.” 

“ You’re very good, miss. And you are look- 
ing remarkably well. ’Pon my word, I’m de- 
lighted to see you looking so well. It’s extraor- 
dinary, you know — quite extraordinary!” 

It would, indeed, have been extraordinary 
had it been true. My image in the glass told 
another story. But I did not think it neces- 
sary modestly to disclaim Mr. Whiffles’s com- 
pliment. It was evident enough that he was 
by no means at his ease. He rolled his pocket- 
handkerchief tightly between his orange-color- 
ed palms, and the nerrous twitching of his head 
and settling of his chin in his collar became al- 
most incessant. 

I had an idea that he had expected some 
demonstration of emotion on my part — he was 
aware of the errand I had been upon — and that 
he was a little puzzled and discomfited by not 
finding in my face that which he had antici- 
pated. I thought that the surest and swiftest 
method of relieving his mind would be to im- 
part to him the success of my attem.pt, and the 
consequent certainty that he would receive his 


ANNE FUENESS. 


107 


money. And this, accordingly, I did, in a few 
words. 

“You don’t mean it, miss !” cried Mr. Whif- 
fles. “ And you really went slap out — prompt, 
I mean — you really went out prompt and plucky 
— you’ll excuse me if I drop a phrase not so 
choice as you’re accustomed to now and then. 
It is far from being intended as a liberty, miss 
— merely ’abit, from association with far differ- 
ent walks in life.” 

I told him I was sure he would not willingly 
offend me, which he fervently protested was 
true. But still, despite the assurance that he 
would be paid all that my father owed him, 
Mr. Whiffles did not recover his composure. 
He still rolled his handkerchief between his 
hands, and jerked his head spasmodically. 
After a short pause he got up from his chair, 
and addressed me, in a very agitated manner, 
thus ; 

“ Miss Furness, I’m aware that my position 
here at present is an unpleasant one ; I dare 
say it’s mutually unpleasant — and, in fact, it 
must be. But this I will say, that any thing 
gamer than your conduct, and that of your hon- 
ored ma, I never met with in the whole course 
of my life ! and I’ve naturally been a witness 
to a good deal of game conduct on and off the 
turf. It — it does you credit, miss, and honor. 
I assure you — I do assure you, Miss Furness, 
that, though sensible of my own deficiencies in 
the society of ladies to a greater extent than 
p’raps you’d credit, I — I vmst endeavor to ex- 
press to you how game I think your conduct. 
Of course I’m aware that the unpleasantness of 
my position as your father’s creditor must act 
against me in your opinion. But, upon my 
honor and soul, if I’d known I should feel it as 
I do — I — I wouldn’t have acted on Captain Fa- 
cer’s information ! At — at least,” said Mr. 
Whiffles, pulling himself up as one conscious of 
having been carried away by his feelings — “ at 
least, I’m sure you wouldn’t take any advantage 
of any body. Miss Furness. And if I was a 
wealthy party, the case would be very different 
altogether. But as far as my means go, if time’s 
a hobject, or any accommodation in the way of 
bills might be acceptable, you’ve only to speak, 
Miss Furness ; for I do assure you that gamer 
conduct I never met with in all my life.” 

Of all this speech, made with more jerks, and 
starts, and hesitating, and corrections of him- 
self than I can record, one phrase stuck par- 
ticularly in my memory — “ Captain Facer’s in- 
formation.” It rang in my ears. “Information!” 

“Would you have any objection, Mr. Whif- 
fles,” said I, “to tell me what was the nature 
of the information you speak of as having been 
given you by — Mr. Facer ?” 

“Oh dear. Miss Furness — I — I don’t know 
exactly,” said Mr. Whiffles, looking at me with 
a good deal of uneasiness, and some cunning 
in his eyes, and rubbing his chin with the hand- 
kerchief, now reduced to a compact hard ball. 

“You said — did you not ? — that you acted on 
ivformation received from him.” 


“ Oh — well, you know ; you mustn’t suppose, 
Miss Furness, that Captain Facer put me up to 
the move ! Quite the reverse. The Captain, you 
see — naturally — why, it didn’t suit his book al- 
together. In fact, not at all ; it didn’t suit the 
Captain’s book. Though, at the same time. 
I’m sure he must feel proud. Miss Furness, when 
he reflects on the very — the extraordinary, I 
may say — game manner in which you have be- 
haved ; your honored ma likewise. It arose in 
my mind out of hints dropped by the Captain, 
when speaking of certain most — most congrat- 
ulatory circumstances,” said Mr. Whiffles, bring- 
ing the phrase out with some complacency after 
a rather long hesitation — “ circumstances of a 
highly congratulatory kind, I’m sure. Miss Fur- 
ness — at least, as far as the gentleman is con- 
cerned ! For really more game and nohle con- 
duct I never was a witness to in the whole course 
of my life.” 

“Mr. Whiffles,” I said, mustering a sudden 
resolution, “you said just now that you would 
be willing to oblige me.” 

“Any thing in my power, miss, as a man far 
from wealthy, and one who, how^ever loth, is 
bound to think of his corn-chandler’s quarterly 
accounts.” 

“I am not going to ask for money, Mr. Whif- 
fles.” 

“Don’t mention it, Miss Furness, I’m sure!” 
murmured Mr. Whiffles ; but he looked re- 
lieved. 

. “All I ask is that you would kindly and 
frankly tell me the truth.” 

Mr. Whiffles looked somewhat less relieved 
than before. He said, “Yes, miss.” And his 
head twitched from right to left, and it was rath- 
er a long time before his chin settled itself again 
between his shirt-collars. 

“ In the first place, it may relieve you from 
any constraint if I say that — that you need be 
under no apprehension of — of injuring Mr. Fa- 
cer in my parents’ opinion, or in mine. Mr. 
Facer parted from us this morning. Our friend- 
ship with him is irrevocably broken.” 

Mr. Whiffles gave a long, low whistle, clapped 
his leg, and nodded his head thoughtfully, but 
not with much surprise, apparently. 

“Am I right in supposing that Mr. Facer 
^old you that he — that I — ” 

“That you was engaged to be married to 
him, Miss Furness ?” cried Mr. Whiffles, with 
sudden animation, and as if a light had broken 
in on his mind. “Yes, he did — three months 
ago and more. That you was a only child, and 
an heiress, and a great catch. Miss Furness ? 
Yes, he did ! That, even supposing your father 
made ducks and drakes of the Water-Eardley 
property, there w’as a good bit o’ money tied 
tight up by your mother’s marriage settlement, 
which must unrevokahh/ come to you. Miss Fur- 
ness? Yes, he did ! That, consequently, any 
little temporary assistance that might be ad- 
vanced toward himself in the carrying on of va- 
rious little transactions on the turf w’ould be 
sure to be repaid with interest so soon as ever 


108 


ANNE FURNESS. 


you was his wife, and your money come into 
his hands, Miss Furness ? Yes, he did ! That 
Captain X<acer gave it out every wheres that he 
was going to marry a young lady of fortune, 
and got tick on the strength of it. Miss Furness ? 
Yes, he did ! And do I think you a angelic 
young lady, ten million times too good for him, 
and a good riddance that he’s showed himself 
in his true colors before it was too late. Miss 
Furness ? Yes, I’m damned if I don’t !” 

The man had worked himself into a red-hot 
condition of excitement, and stood panting and 
jerking his head, and mopping his face with the 
tightly compressed handkerchief, as if he had 
been undergoing some violent physical exertion. 

“Thank you,” said I, and my own voice 
sounded strange to me. I was sick at heart. 

“ Miss Furness ! Dear, dear ; you’ve turned 
so white ! and — I hope I haven’t done amiss ? 
You — you asked me for the truth, you know.” 

“ And I am sincerely obliged to you for it. 
Pray do not say any more to me just now.” 

He obeyed, and retired to the window, where 
he stood silent, neither speaking nor looking at 
me. Presently my parents came down. I felt 
a strange embarrassment in meeting my father. 
I had not seen him since the proposition of the 
giving up of the settlement had been made. I 
believe Mr. Whiffles’s presence was not unwel- 
come to him as rendering any demonstration 
of feeling, any necessity of speaking to me on 
the subject of my morning’s errand, unbecom- 
ing. Father came into the room with a gloomy, 
depressed air. He took my hand, and pressed 
it, and stroked my hair quickly once or twice, 
but with averted face ; and he did not speak 
during the meal, which we all partook of by- 
and-by, except to Mr. Whiffles. 

I should think that not one of us was more 
heartily relieved than Mr. Whiffles when the 
repast came to an end, and he rose to go away. 
He had been in an obvious embarrassment 
what subject of conversation to choose. His 
own topic — racing, and all connected with it — 
he felt to be inadmissible in my mother’s pres- 
ence under the circumstances in which we were. 
He even was shy of praising the charms of 
Water-Eardley gardens, and of a country life, 
being oppressed by the consciousness that they 
were, in fact and truth, ours no longer; and there 
were limits to even Mr. Whiffles’s power of re- 
peating to us, in his peculiar mournful and 
monotonous manner, that he really — really now, 
’pon his honor and word, had never had the 
pleasure of seeing us looking so remarkably and 
charmingly well as we were looking at that mo- 
ment during the whole course of his existence. 

At length he went away. When he was gone 
mother went and stood by my father, and put 
her hand tenderly on his shoulder, and spoke 
to him in a low, caressing voice. He was ter- 
ribly downcast; would scarcely speak or lift 
his head, and scarcely seemed to hear or notice 
mother’s words. 

All at once he clenched his fist, and struck 
the table heavily. 


“ It ought not to be, Lucy ! It shall not be, 
by-!” 

Mother put her hand upon his lips. 

“ Dearest, it ought to be ! It is all settled. It 
is right, and we are more than content.” 

“Father,” said I, not without timidity, “if 
you are afraid that mother and I should be car- 
ried away by feeling and — and imprudence, you 
can’t think that of Uncle Cudberry ; and he saw 
that it was fitting the settlement should be 
given up.” 

Father did not answer ; but he listened. 

“And if your desire is our happiness — as I’m 
sure it is — you must be sure you best consult it 
by letting us do our part, and take our share 
of the troubles that have come. And then, you ' 
know, father, it is not as if w'e were without a 
prospect or a hope. You have this situation 
in view. We may almost consider it yours, 
may we not ? And you will go to it a free man, 
able to look the world in the face, and — and we 
shall all be much happier, dear father. She will 
be happier. Think of mother ! How could she 
bear to see you weighed down by debts you had 
no hope of paying ? And whose feelings ought 
to be considered before hers ?” 

“My poor, brave lass!” cried father, open- 
ing his arms, “ you deserve a better father than 
ever I’ve been to you !” He pressed me to his 
breast in a tight clasp. 

Mother sobbed out, as she circled us both in 
her arms, “ Oh, George, George ! how can we 
be so ungrateful as to repine or fret when God 
has given us this dear child !” 

We wept together tears that were not all bit- 
ter. I had not felt my heart drawn with such 
tenderness toward my father for many and 
many a day. How tremblingly thankful I was 
to remember that embrace long afterward ! 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

At one o’clock the next day Mr. Cudberry 
came, and brought Mr. Crook, the lawyer, with 
him ; and my mother’s marriage settlement was, 
with due legal formalities, given up. 

Mr. Cudberry had a long private colloquy 
with my father, to which no one else was ad- 
mitted. I supposed him to be endeavoring to 
gain a clear understanding of the position of 
my father’s affairs. But this, as I gathered 
from a few words he let drop before leaving 
Water-Eardley, father either could not or would 
not give him. Mr. Cudberry went away, with 
a very brief and cold “good-by” to father; a 
quite cordial one, for him, to mother and me. 

“I’d advise you, Mrs. George,” he said, 
dryly, “ to induce George to get hold o’ one or 
other end of this tangle of troubles he’s made 
for himself, and try to unravel it a bit. It’s 
like squeezing water out of a flint, trying to get 
George to speak plain. I’m not a man as is 
fond o’ talking and confiding overmuch. But 
when a thing has to be said, I ean make shift 


ANNE FURNESS. 


109 


to say it — and to say it so as there shall be no 
mistake about what I mean.” 

“You must make allowance for George at 
this moment, Mr. Cudberry,” said mother, 
pleadingly. “He has gone through so much 
during this last week ; and he feels for vs — for 
Anne and me — and frets himself about what he 
calls this sacrifice more than is needful. He 
can’t be expected to have his old frank clear- 
ness of mind just yet.” 

“Tell’ee what, Mrs. George. We all know 
about the sins o’ the fathers being visited on 
the children. What an amazing good look-out 
it ’ud be for some on us if the virtues o’ the 
wives could be credited to the husbands !” 

And then Mr. Cudberry stolidly went his 
way. 

Before the laAvyer took his leave he said to 
me, in a matter-of-course tone, with a tinge of 
decent pity in it : 

“ Sad thing for those poor Arkwrights, Miss 
Furness. You know the Reverend Edwin 
Arkwright and his family very well, do you 
not ?” 

“Yes, indeed. What is amiss? What has 
happened ?” 

“ Oh, I thought you might have heard. An 
execution in the house. Landlord distraining 
for rent, ” answered Mr. Crook,, w'ith a piece 
of red tape between his teeth, and his hands 
busy in putting up his papers. And then he, 
too, went away. 

Mother was almost as grieved as I was when 
I told her this news. 

“I should like to see them,” said I. “To 
help them, if I could. But that is out of my 
power. Grandfather will be a friend to them, 
I am sure, as far as he can be. I wish — I wish 
I might go to Mortlands and speak to him !” 

Grandfather’s name had not been mentioned 
between us in all our talk about the giving up 
of my mother’s little fortune. We both knew 
that he would have opposed it with all his 
might if he had been consulted in the matter. 
And we had refrained from touching on a 
point so painful. Each had tacitly understood 
the other’s feelings in the matter. 

“He will be very angry at first, Anne,” said 
my mother, with a quickly changing color in 
her face. And I knew that she was not al- 
luding to the Arkwrights. 

“ I think he will have some right to be an- 
gry that we did not tell him, mother dear. 
But your first duty, and mine, was to father. 
Grandfather is so wise and good that he will 
understand all that when his first vexation is 
past. Vexation for himself, I mean. I fear 
he will be — be vexed for vs much longer. But 
we must have patience. I icish I might go to 
Mortlands.” 

“You would have a disagreeable task, rny 
child, in telling — ” 

“Perhaps not. Perhaps all Horsingham 
knows it by this time,” I answered, with a bit- 
terly mortifying remembrance of the occasion 
when those words had last been said to myself. 


“ Besides, it must be faced some time. And 
you know, mother, Ave agreed the other day 
that we must learn to bear being blamed for 
doing right.” 

“ Blame ! My own darling, none should 
fall on you, at any rate. If blame there be, it 
is mine — all mine!” 

“ No, mother, don’t let us talk in that way. 
But do you think I might — I could — do you 
think it would be right for me to go to Mort- 
lands ?” 

It was now my turn to color, as I painfully 
felt. Donald was at Mortlands. How could 
I meet Donald ? 

We discussed the matter a little, talking 
with subdued voices. 

“It would be absurd to suppose that Don- 
ald’s presence ought to shut you out from your 
grandfather’s house, Anne,” said my mother. 
And I felt this to be reasonable and true. 
And I finally resolved to go to Mortlands, de- 
spite the mingled and painful emotions which 
made me shrink from meeting Donald Ayrlie. 
“And then, perhaps, I may not see him at all,” 
I thought ; and was conscious of a most un- 
reasonable sensation of discontent at that pros- 
pect also. 

I resolved to go, as I said ; and having so 
resolved, there was nothing for it but to set 
out as speedily as might be, so as to arrive at 
Mortlands in good time ; for I must Avalk, and 
the autumn days were growing very short. 

Yesterday had been the last day of the races. 
Most of the itinerant vagabonds who had been 
drawn by them to Horsingham were already on 
the march along the white highways, east, 
west, north, and south. Occasionally I met 
on my Avay to my grandfather’s house a cart or 
van drawn by Avretched-looking beasts, with 
squalid men and women trudging alongside of 
it, following their Avandering business under a 
heaA-y Aveight of poverty and hungry children. 
Poor, battered, disreputable nomads ! There 
Avas one boy, who seemed, as far as my mem- 
ory served me, to be the veiT counterpart of a 
dazzling, spangled apparition I had admired on 
the occasion of those long-ago races to Avhich 
I had been taken as a child, and whither 
grandfather had sternly forbidden that Donald 
should accompany us. 

The “ counterpart” AA^as not spangled, though. 
He Avas dressed in a shabby, thrice shabby, 
little over-coat, from beneath Avhich appeared 
two lanky, slender legs, clad in tight and un- 
speakably dirty Avhite stockings. He Avore a 
thick ankle-boot ( u one foot, the other Avas 
thrust into a broken, doAAm-trodden slipper, and 
had a bandage round it. He had hurt it, I 
suppose, in his tumbling or dancing, poor 
child ! and limped along painfully. But his 
pale, pretty face and long, curling hair Avere 
like those of the dazzling, spangled apparition 
that had once* flitted across my limited field of 
vision like a magic-lantern picture. 

I found a little piece of money in my purse — 
a silver three-pence Avhich had been hoarded 


110 


ANNE FURNESS. 


there, why I know not, from the days when it 
was bright and new, and had grown tarnished 
— and gave it him. 

The boy took it in silent surprise, looked at 
it, and put it between his teeth — to test its 
genuineness, I conjecture. A bold, gaunt, 
copper-faced woman, with a baby at her breast, 
who walked beside him, turned to stare at me ; 
as also did a black-bearded man, who carried 
a long balancing-pole and a bundle. I hurried 
on, very flushed and confused, and was pain- 
fully conscious of the unflinching and curious 
observation of the whole family, until a turn in 
the road screened me from their vicAV. And 
then I discovered that my foolish eyes were full 
of tears. 

A great disappointment awaited me at Mort- 
lands. My grandfather Avas absent ; had been 
aAvay more than a week, but was expected home 
that night, it might be as late as eleven o’clock. 
Eliza was at Alice Kitchen’s, helping to make 
her Avedding-clothes. Mr. Donald Avas out in 
the tOAvn. He had not been himself at all 
these tAvo days past, but he liad been busy 
looking after some patients the doctor had left 
in his charge. Rose early and went out, and 
came home late, and looked fagged out. He 
had said he Avas thankful that Dr. HcAvson AA^as 
to be back that night ; and so Avas Keturah, 
Avho gave me all this information. She was 
thankful, for she thought Mr. Donald wanted 
looking after himself. But he Avould drop 
down with Avorry and Aveariness before he’d neg- 
lect poor sick folks. However, the doctor Avas 
coming home, and then it Avould be all right. 

Keturah stopped short in her talk, and looked 
at me. She had not been speaking to me in 
her pleasantest manner. Her pale lips had not 
once parted into that rare smile Avhich Avas wont 
Avhen I first kneAv her to make her stern face 
beautiful in my childish eyes, and Avhich had 
not lost its illuminating power. But Avhen she 
had looked at me her manner changed and 
softened immediately. 

Was I tired? Was I not Avell? I looked 
far too AA'hite — and surely — Avhy, yes ; let her 
feel my arm. I had grown thin ! I must sit 
down at once, and rest. And I must have some 
wine and a sandAvich — a nice dainty sandAvich 
that she (Keturah) Avould cut in her best man- 
ner. What had I been doing to myself? But 
young people Avere so foolish ! Never had any 
notion of taking their meals regular, or any 
thing. That Avas Mr. Donald’s case. He Avant- 
ed looking after like a baby in some things. 
Was my mother Avell? (“Miss Lucy,” Ketu- 
rah Avas not unapt to call her in moments of 
emotion.) And — and my father (with a little 
compression of the pale lips, and contraction 
of the jet-black broAvs, noAv looking blacker 
than eA'er by reason of the gray ness of her hair) ? 
Then it Avas I myself wanted taking care of, and 
Avhen the doctor came back he must see to it. 

I learned from all this that nothing had trans- 
pired at Mortlands concerning the, to us, so 
momentous events of the last two days. My 


grandfather’s house, never very accessible to 
floating gossip, Avas jealously sealed against it 
during the race-Aveek. Mortlands, for as long 
as I could remember it, presented a very stern, 
or rather a very blank front to the outer world 
throughout that holiday-time. Of late years 
my grandfather had naturally not grown more 
indulgent to the races or any thing connected 
with them. lu fact, he had gone aAvay from 
Horsingham at this time to avoid any glimpse 
or sound of them, as I Avell kncAv, although Ke- 
turah refrained from saying so. 

“ Where is Mrs. Abram ?” I asked, looking 
round the, dining-room, Avherein this colloquy 
was taking place. 

There now!” cried Keturah, clapping her 
hands once loudly together, and then clasping 
them on her apron. “It’s as queer a thing as 
I ever see to watch how Mrs. Abram has took 
to the child. You may well ask where she is. 
Why, I suppose you don’t remember the day in 
all your young life — barring Sundays, Christ- 
mas-days, and Good-Fridays — that Mrs. Abram 
was any Avhere at this hour except in that back- 
board of a chair as she chose for herself, fiddling 
Avith her wools, and knitting summer and Avin- 
ter. "No^ to be sure you can’t. And now 
where is she, think you ? Out in the garden, 
Avalking round and round, or up and down, or 
AvhereA*er she’s bid to by the little ’un, and car- 
rying a big soft ball she made for her herself, 
and ready to play with it too, poor soul ! if she’s 
ordered. Just you think of Mrs. Abram play- 
ing at ball!” 

“ Who ? What child ? What little one ?” 
cried I, in profound bcAvilderment. 

“ Why, little Jane ArkAvright. Haven’t you 
heard of the ArkAvrights ? Lord ! I thought 
you got all the news out at Water-Eardley, 
Avhat with Mr. Sam Cudberry and — and others^ 
as seems to confine their business in life to talk- 
ing about the business of other folks ! ’Tain’t 
the kind of trade I should ’prentice a son of 
mine to myself; but I suppose it’s a genteel 
calling.” 

“I haA'e heard that there is an execution 
in Mr. ArkAvright’s house. I only heard it 
accidentally this morning, Keturah. MattheAV 
Kitchen has been very hard — very cruel, I 
think. Poor Mr. Arkwright !” 

“Matthew Kitchen! Ugh!” AA’ith a back- 
Avard SAveep of the hand expressive of fierce dis- 
dain. “For goodness sake don’t let me begin 
about that! But we’ve got all the children 
here except the eldest, Lizzie. She’s a help to 
her mother, poor little lass !” 

“ Got all the children here? At Mortlands ?” 

“At this identical minute they’re at school 
— all but little Jane. It was mostly Mr. Don- 
ald’s doing — his and mine betAveen us. Mrs. 
Abram put herself into a quandary about it, 
your grandfather being away. But Mr. Don- 
ald and me thought that master Avouldn’t dis- 
approA’e of having the little things stOAved aAvay 
here till their father and mother can turn round 
a bit, and see Avhat’s to be done. There’s room 


ANNE FURNESS. 


Ill 


enough for the bairns, and they’re very quiet and 
good, and most of the day they’re at school.” 

“ I feel sure that grandfather will not disap- 
prove.” 

“Well, and then Mrs. Abram she eome 
round in the wonderfulest way to little Jane. 
Jane’s a real tyrant over her, and orders her 
about in her positive little fashion, as it’s a cu- 
rious sight to see.” 

It w'as a curious sight to see, as I afterward 
witnessed for myself, little Jane, with staid sa- 
gacity and an air of responsibility, taking the 
lead, and compelling Mrs. Abram to follow. 
The child was not naughty, or capricious, or 
troublesome. She had simply perceived that 
in that superior bulk, clad in sombre garments, 
there resided no intellectual power that was 
equal to the task of governing her^ She had 
further perceived that the adult creature was 
gentle, and not indisposed to submit, whereupon 
Jane proceeded to exact submission with a 
queer mixture of baby selfishness and old-fash- 
ioned gravity. And not the least curious part 
of the spectacle was Mrs. Abram’s behavior 
under this yoke. The poor woman was dimly 
aware that there was good chance of the child’s 
becoming terribly spoiled under her auspices ; 
and this prospect preying on her conscience, 
Mrs. Abram endeavored, every now and then, 
to assert some authority by suggesting a course 
of proceeding different from that which Miss 
Jane had decided upon for herself ; but as, un- 
fortunately, poor Mrs. Abram’s suggestions 
were mostly devoid of any solid basis of reason, 
Jane put them aside with a sort of serene good 
sense, and pursued her own way with the ju- 
dicious solemnity of a veteran. 

I explained to Keturah that my immediate 
errand in Horsingham had been to endeavor to 
see Mrs. Arkwright, if my seeing her could in 
any wise serve or comfort her, Keturah did 
not seem to entertain the notion favorably, 

“ Best not see her, I think,” she said. “ Not 
you." 

“W% not ?” was my natural inquiry ; and 
it was with difficulty that I drew from the old 
woman the fact that Mrs. Arkwright, in her 
trouble and soreness of heart, was breathing 
much wrath against my father, whom she ac- 
cused of being indirectly — and not so very in- 
directly — the cause of the misfortune that had 
come upon her home. 

“It is incredibly unjust!” cried I, hotly. 
“ How in Heaven’s name can my father be re- 
sponsible for Matthew Kitchen’s harsh behav- 
ior?” But even as the words were passing 
my lips I remembered Selina’s taunting speech 
to my mother : “You had better make Mr. Fur- 
ness pay my husband what he owes him. Then, 
perhaps, Mr. Kitchen will be able to afford to 
be patient with the parson.” 

That was the gist of Selina’s words ; and al- 
though I did not believe in the least that my 
father’s payment or non-payment of his debts 
to Matthew Kitchen had at all influenced the 
latter's proceedings toward the Arkwrights, yet 


I perceived at once what use Selina and her 
husband might make of the plea to Mrs. Ark- 
wright. Doubtless they had made unscrupu- 
lous use of it. Keturah confirmed my thought. 
Yes; they had made out that Mr. Furness of 
Water-Eardley had a deal to do with driving 
Matthew to strong measures. And then Mrs. 
Arkwright, poor, harassed body! saw that 
there was no execution put into Water-Eardley. 
Things went on there as prosperously as ever, 
to all appearance. That made her wild. She 
was a jealous temper, and terribly fierce when 
her husband or children were hurt or threat- 
e.ned. I must not be too hard on Mrs. Ark- 
wright. So said Keturah. 

I could only return to Water-Eardley — not 
with a light heart, as may be guessed. Every 
thing had turned out disappointingly. I had 
not seen the Arkwrights ; I had not seen my 
grandfather. My errand had been in vain, or 
worse than vain. 

As I was preparing to leave Mortlands there 
came a sharp ring at the garden gate. I start- 
ed so violently and visibly at the sound that 
Keturah took occasion to remark that I had 
always been a nervous kind of being, but that 
now she fiiirly found I’d got to a pitch of nerv- 
ousness that made her quiver again only to see 
me ; and began a second homily on the neces- 
sity of my being looked after. 

“ To think of jumping like that at the sound 
of the postman’s ring ! Why, child, you must 
be regularly overstrained, body and mind.” 

“ Oh, the postman ! Was it the postman ?” 

“ Ay ! Who else ? I know his way of jerk- 
ing the bell. Bark and port -wine for you, 
'Miss Anne, I should say! But the doctor ’ll 
know what’s right when he sees you.” 

There were two letters : one addressed to 
Donald Ayrlie in my grandfather’s hand 
(“ That’s to say what o’clock master is to arrive 
to-night, I’d lay a wager,” observed Keturah, 
looking at it eagerly) ; and the other for grand- 
father himself. 

“Look at the post-mark of this one. Miss 
Anne. Is it from Scotland ?” 

“Yes; it is from Scotland.” 

“Ay, and with a big grand red seal. Mas- 
ter said that if any letter came from Scotland 
while he was away, it was to be sent up to 
Water-Eardley, and your mother w'as to open 
it. It would be on Mr. Furness’s business, 
master said, and he’d be eager to see it. Per- 
haps you’ll take it with you. Miss Anne?” 

I did take it, incurring much anxious and 
disquieted observation from Keturah by my 
tremulous manner of doing so. 

This letter was doubtless from Colonel 
Fisher. It was to confirm father in the situa- 
tion that had been applied for. It was a good 
omen — its arriving directly after the giving up 
of the settlement. The thought was foolish, 
but I could not help being superstitious. I 
hastened home, unconscious of fatigue, and 
ran into mother’s sitting-room, holding the let- 
ter tightly clasped in my hand. 


112 


ANNE FURNESS. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Mother was crying when I went into the 
room. She hastily wiped her eyes, and tumed 
her back to the light when she saw me. But I 
had perceived the tears. 

“ Did you see your grandfather?” she asked, 
in a quick, confused way. “ What did he say ?” 

I briefly told her of my grandfather’s absence 
from Horsingham, and of his being expected 
back at night. She gave a little sigh, partly 
of disappointment, pstrtly of relief. She had 
dreaded the time when my grandfather should 
learn the truth. Then, before I spoke of the 
letter, which I had slipped into my pocket, I in 
my turn questioned her. 

“What is the matter, mother ? You’re not 
— you’re not fretting for me ? Not repenting 
what we did this morning ? Dear mother, I’m 
sure it was a right thing to do, and I am so 
thankful that w’e accomplished it.” 

“No, dear. I have not been fretting about 
that.” 

“Then is there any new grief come to you ?” 

She hesitated for some time to answer, saying 
it was nothing ; she had been foolish in taking 
it so much to heart. At length, fearing that I 
should think the matter worse than it really 
was, she told me that she had had two troubles 
since I had been absent. The first had been 
Flower’s very unexpected appearance. My fa- 
ther was in Horsingham. Mother was alone 
in the house. Flower had walked in, with un- 
abashed front, and requested to see her. He 
had come, he said, for his money. A quarter’s 
wages were owing to hinS^ which he peremp- 
torily demanded. Mother told him that he 
had forfeited all right to his wages by running 
away from the house, in the manner he had 
done, without a word of warning ; but that if 
money was really due to him — which she did 
not at all know — it might be that his master 
would pay him some portion of it, if he applied 
for it in a proper manner. She (mother) could 
do nothing for him. He must speak with Mr. 
Furness. 

But this did not suit Flower. He tried to 
persuade her into giving him some money then 
and there. She might have been weak enough 
to do so, in order to get rid of him, had she had 
the means ; but she had them not. On this the 
fellow grew very insolent ; threatened all sorts 
of vague vengeance ; declared that it had been 
a bad day for him when he came into such a 
beggarly house ; and, in fine, was unreasonable 
and insolent, as was the nature of him. But 
through his vague threats of vengeance some- 
thing definite had pierced. He knew all about 
Mr. Gervase Lacer. Miss Anne would not 
much like him to spread what he knew in 
Horsingham. All that he had said that time 
Mr. Furness blackguarded him for it had been 
true — and more ! Why had he denied it, then, 
and begged pardon ? Why, because Mr. Laeer 
had tipped him to hold his tongue. A nice, 
respectable son-in-law Mr. Furness had got hold 


of! And Flower would take care that all Hors- 
ingham knew his story. But presently he had 
broken out in a still more insulting and ruffian- 
ly strain. Well, he wished Miss Anne joy, then, 
of the letters she had written to “Lacer,” that 
was all! She might be sure they w^ould be 
made public enough if it suited “Laeer’s” book 
to do so, unless Mr. Furness would buy him off. 
And finally Flower took his departure, after 
treating my mother to this scene, with a volley 
of coarse sneers and low abuse, which he utter- 
ed aloud on his way through the kitchen and 
across the garden, for the benefit of the two 
women-servants and any others who might be 
at hand to hear. 

“What did he mean, Anne, by letters you 
had written to Gervase Lacer?” asked my mo- 
ther. “ The man was not quite sober, but I do 
not believe he was so intoxicated as not to know 
what he was saying. You never wrote to Mr. 
Lacer, did you?” 

“ I "wrote to him twice. Onee at your bid- 
ding to ask him to dine or drink tea here — a 
mere commonplace note of three lines. The 
other time I wrote to him was after I had learn- 
ed from him that my father was concerned in 
having a race-horse trained secretly. I was 
disturbed by the thought night and day. I 
kept turning it over this way and that w’ay in 
my mind. At length I wrote a little letter to 
Mr. Lacer, asking him if there were no means 
to prevent — to prevent all the trouble that did 
happen, after all. It was not very wdse, per- 
haps, so to write. But I was so restless and 
unhappy I could have caught at the merest 
straw. The letter was one which — noio — all the 
world might read.” 

“Of course, darling! But I was doubtful 
of the fact of your having written at all. And 
how did Flower ascertain it ?” 

“ Perhaps he posted the letter ; I don’t re- 
member. Nor is it worth a seeond thought. 
Dearest mother, don’t let such a wretch’s low 
malignity disturb you. But you had a second 
trouble, you said. What was it ?” 

“The second trouble, Anne, is a more seri- 
ous one. And — I’m afraid it will hurt you a 
good deal. Your father went to Horsingham. 
He was obliged to do so. There he heard that 
Matthew Kitchen had put an execution into the 
Arkwrights’ house. That was a blow to him, 
for I think it opened his eyes to the hard, 
grasping character of the man. Father has al- 
ways said that Matthew was more reasonable 
and forbearing than people gave him credit for. 
Then there came worse. He saw Mrs. Ark- 
wright somewhere — in a shop or in the street 
— and she began to rail upon him, laying her 
misfortunes at his door. Poor father !” 

“ She is violent, mother. But consider — five 
little children ! And then her husband, whom 
she so idolizes — ” 

“ Oh, Anne, I can’t forgive her ! It was too 
unjust. Your father attacked publicly in that 
way ! Charged with the ruin of her family ! 
It was too monstrous. And the worst is that 


ANNE FURNESS. 


113 


father has so taken it to heart ! He won’t hear 
me hlanie the woman. ‘No,’ he says; ‘she 
■was right, perhaps. I bring trouble and mis- 
ery on every one. My name is a by-word 
where it had been honored for generations!’ 
And so he goes on. It was cruel. I can’t for- 
give her. And are we not making sacrifices to 
do right ? Shall not we, too, be forced to go 
away from our pleasant home, and give up all 
we have in the world ?” 

I felt that that was no time to plead or make 
excuses for Mrs. Arkwright. I thought that 
the letter I had brought with me would be the 
best means of soothing my mother, and turning 
her thoughts away from the thorny present to 
green pastures where we might hope, at least, 
for peace. 

I took it from my pocket, and held it up be- 
fore her eyes, telling her at the same time how 
I had come by it, and that grandfather had di- 
rected she should open it in his absence. Mo- 
ther’s face paled and flushed, and paled again, 
as she devoured the square, red-sealed envelope 
with her eyes. 

“Oh, Anne!” she said, and clasped her 
hands tightly together. “ Oh, Anne ! if it 
should be — if it is — ” 

“Surely it is a bearer of good tidings, dear 
mother. The matter was nearly settled before. 
Ought not father to be present when we open 
it? Where is he? Let me call him.” 

“lie is wandering about the shrubbery. But 
stay, Anne ! Don’t go, my child ! If it should 
not be good news, after all ! Let us spare him 
the chance of disappointment. Give it to me.” 

Her hands shook so much that she tore the 
caver across in trying to open the letter. And 
she breathed quickly, and kept her lips parted, 
like a person parching with thirst. 

There were two letters — one from Colonel 
Fisher to my grandfather, the other from the 
new proprietor of the Scotch estate to Colonel 
Fisher himself. 

Mother looked at the latter first. It was 
very brief— a few lines, as I could perceive 
without distinguishing the words, very neat 
and straight, and headed by a big gilt mono- 
gram. Mother kept her eyes fixed upon it for 
a much longer time than it could have taken to 
master its contents. She seemed to be reading 
it over and over again. At length, as she did 
not look up, I said, in a low A'oice, 

“Well, mother?” 

But the chill of her silence had struck to my 
heart. I knew— I knew ! She glanced at me 
for a moment, and heaving a deep, long sigh, 
shook her head slightly. Then she looked 
down again at the letter lying open on her lap. 

I took it up and read it. But to this hour I 
can not recollect a word of it, although I gather- 
ed the sense of it instantly. It seemed to me 
as if the paper were covered by one ■word — No ! 
no! no! no !— in characters that quivered be- 
fore my quivering eyes. 

We remained a long time without speaking. 
Then wc tried to cheer each other. This one 
H • 


chance had failed, but there would be others. 
We had had no right to make sure of success on 
the first attempt. So little trouble had been 
taken, after all. And so forth. 

“You have not looked at the other letter, 
mother,” said I. “What does Colonel Fisher 
say? He may have heard of something else.” 

“Colonel Fisher!” 

The words were echoed in my father’s voice, 
and my father stood in the room. 

There was no help for it. He must read the 
ill news without any preparation. 

He soon dispatched the straight, neat lines, 
with their ostentatious gilt monogram ; read 
them almost at a glance, and tossed the note 
down on the table. Then he took up Colonel 
Fisher’s letter to grandfather, and began to 
read it. 

“ ‘ My dear Doctor Hewson — ’ Why, this is 
addressed to your father, Lucy.” 

“Yes; he is away, and left word that any 
letter from Scotland was to be sent here. I 
was to open it.” 

Father then read the Colonel’s letter, but not 
aloud. We watched his face. It did not 
move, or change much, except that a dull red 
color spread itself over his forehead and cheeks. 

I have said that my father was a tall man, stal- 
wart and upright. During these last few 
weeks he had become bowed, and his head 
hung forward on his breast with a moody air. 
It was as if failure and shame and disappoint- 
ment and remorse had been ponderable things, 
whose burden was laid upon his shoulders. 

He did not speak a word, but folded the let- 
ter again, laying it on the table before him, and 
smoothing it with the palm of his hand with a 
slow, monotonous motion. 

Mother, uneasy at his silence, began to talk 
in as unconcerned a manner as she could as- 
sume. It was a disappointment, of course ; 
but who could get a suitable situation at the 
very first attempt? Father might find some- 
thing in England. Perhaps he would like that 
better than going off to the Highlands. It 
might turn out •w'ell after all, might it not? 
Mr. Cudberry had spoken only the other day 
of a large estate in one of the eastern counties 
that he had heard of ; the property of a minor ; 
and the guardians wanted a responsible person 
as steward and general manager. And thus 
poor mother went on, gathering together what 
crumbs of comfort she could find, for her hus- 
band’s disappointment. 

Disappointment! Was it disappointment? 
There was an inscrutable look in his face that 
attracted my attentive eyes to it incessantly, 
and as incessantly baffled their scrutiny— a look 
that made his face strangely unfamiliar to me,, 
if I may use such a phrase. We speak of a 
face being lighted up, and wo all know what is 
meant bv it. We know what it is to see the 
eyes, those “Avindows of the soul,” shine with 
an inward fire. In my father’s countenance I 
could fancy that the reverse had taken place. 
Light after light had been quenched. The sun 


114 


ANNE FURNESS. 


of the spirit had grown dim. The face was 
not altered as by age or imbecility. No, the 
lines were firm, the brows and jaw strong as 
ever. But behind that mask there was not 
light, but darkness. But I feel how inadequate 
are my words to convey the impression it made 
upon me. 

While mother was speaking he continued to 
smooth the folded letter with the palm of his 
liand, neither looking up nor making any other 
movement. When she paused he said in a 
queer, apathetic manner, and in a monotonous 
tone, very unlike his old, robust voice, which 
had a wide range of notes in it, 

“I suppose that your father would take care 
of you and Anne, if I were gone, Lucy?” 

“Gone, George darling! Gone where?” 

Father shook his head. 

“That I can’t tell,” said he, in the same 
manner as before. 

“ If you were obliged to he away for a time, 
of course we could be at Mortlands, Anne and 
I. But I had hoped we should all remain to- 
gether.” 

“Your father is displeased with me; very 
justly. But I — don’t — think — he would — visit 
it — on you — and the girl.” 

The words dropped out slowly, slowly, from 
his mouth, as rain still drips from the eaves when 
the force of a shower has long spent itself. 

“Father would do any thing in the world 
for us, or for you, dear George ! Indeed, in- 
deed he would.” 

“Forme? He can do nothing forme. But 
he is a good man. I have always known that.” 

“You must not say he can do nothing be- 
cause this first trial has failed. You are cast 
down by it. But let us look the state of the 
case fairly in the face. All debts will be paid. 
That is the first and chief comfort, is it not? 
You will leave Water-Eardley owing no man a 
shilling. Nay, perhaps there may remain a 
little money in hand from the sale. If you 
have to wait a few weeks before finding em- 
ployment, we have a home to go to, and a wel- 
come. Mortlands would shelter us all, George 
dear. With your knowledge and experience 
and recommendations, it is difficult to suppose 
that you would be long without a situation. 
And you would not be foolishly proud. You 
would take any honest employment to start 
with. Why, Avhen I sec how clear and straight 
our way lies, I wonder that we can be despond- 
ent. It seems almost ungrateful, darling!” 

As mother spoke she had put her hand on 
father’s shoulder caressingly, and now stooped 
down and kissed his forehead. He did not re- 
spond to the caress, but looked up at her with 
haggard eyes, and said : 

“It is easy to talk of things being clear and 
straight, and of all debts being honorably paid. 
Debts! Who knows whether there is enough 
to cover them? Who knows whether you and 
Anne have not beggared yourselves for nothing? 
Shall you not curse me in your hearts if it turns 
out to be so?” 


“George!” cried my mother, and turned 
away from him, weeping. Nothing so cut 
her to the heart as any word from him which 
seemed to show that he fancied he had lost her 
love. 

It was a weary, dreary day, all that remained 
of it. But in the evening there was a full moon, 
and we coaxed my father to go with us into the 
garden. It was not warm, but a serene, still 
night, and we wrapped shawls round us and 
paced about the garden paths, among the flow- 
ers and shrubs, looking so spirit-pale in the 
moonlight. Then we sat down on a garden 
bench, and lingered there until quite late. It 
was long since we three had been together un- 
disturbed. Mother sat encircled in my father’s 
arm. Her head leaned upon his shoulder. One 
of her liaiuls clasped his hand ; the other held 
one of mine. Her face was upturned to the 
serene sky, and it looked, I thought, like one 
of the white, sweet flowers at her feet. 

Father grew less moody and despondent un- 
der the sweet, calm influences of the time and 
place. He spoke more unreservedly than he 
had previously done about Colonel Fisher’s 
letter. We (mother and I) had not read it. 
But he told us that it threw blame on him for 
not having written promptly to the gentleman 
whom he wished to employ hirr.. That this 
latter was a touchy, self-important personage, 
who had considered himself affronted by his 
offer being treated with apparent indifference. 
That, consequently, he (the owner of the estate) 
had caused inquiries to be made, in the hope, 
Colonel Fisher said, of receiving answers unfa- 
vorable to my firther’s character and fitness for 
the place. And questions so asked are gener- 
ally answered in the sense of the questioner. 
The result had been the neat, straightly written, 
gilt-monogrammed note, briefly regretting to 
be obliged to decline Mr. Furness’s services. 

I remembered mother’s urgent entreaties to 
my father to write to Scotland and make stren- 
uous application for the place before the fatal 
September races ; and I was penetrated by the 
angelic sweetness which led her to comfort and 
cheer my father without one word of blame, or 
even of regret, for his self-willed infatuation. 
He felt it too, and spoke to her very softly and 
tenderly, and listened to her prophecies of fu- 
ture happy days in store for us, until the dull 
apathy and gloom which had enveloped him all 
day seemed to break here and there, as a cloud 
breaks, and to give us glimpses of his real, 
frank self 

“Well, Lucy— my good Lucy ! My perfect 
wife ! I will try to hope against hope,” he said, 
slowly. “But I have a clog that you — thank 
God ! — have not. And it weighs me down 
sorely, heavily — a troubled conscience, Lucy. 
But it may be that all is not quite lost and 
ruined. If only — ” 

My father never finished that sentence. But 
he repeated the words several times broodingly, 
and, as it were, to himself 

“If only—” 


ANNE FURNESS. 


115 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

The next morning, early, not much after seven 
o’clock, the Brookfield carrier, on his way from 
Horsingham, brought mother a note from my 
grandfather. It must have been written over- 
night, immediately after his arrival at Mort- 
lands. The original of it lies before me, 
creased and faded by the years it has passed 
in mother’s little Tunbridge-ware box, into 
which she put it that morning after she and I 
had read it. This is the note : 

“My dearest Lucy, — I am much put out 
by finding on my return home, not Donald 
Ayrlie, but a longish letter from him, to say 
that he has left Horsingham altogether. I 
left him in charge of some poor patients. He 
fulfilled his trust loyall}'- until the last moment. 
Then, being assured that I was coming back, 
he fairly ran away. He tells me* that he found 
living on at Mortlands, where every room in 
the house, every shrub in the garden, is indis- 
solubly associated with Anne, was more than 
he could bear. The constant expectation — 
half hope, half fear — of being brought face to 
face with her, ‘kept him on the rack.’ That 
I take to be the truth, but not all the truth. 
Disappointed love is hard to bear ; but I think 
he might have borne it. But there was jeal- 
ousy ! Donald is capable of being unspeakably 
jealous, and he was met at every turn in Hors- 
ingham by reports of Anne’s engagement to 
that man Lacer. Keturah tells me it is spoken 
of by every one. But think of the foolish lad 
going off in that way! Well, old folks should 
not hope to win affection from their juniors. 
I ha,d fancied he was fond of me. And I — to 
tell you the truth, Lucy — there is not much I 
would not do to get him back again. But I 
don’t know how to set about it. About Lacer 
— is it true ? Lucy, Lucy, be careful ! As to 
Anne — Let a man think of the unlikeliest 
choice for a woman to make that his imagina- 
tion can compass, nine times out of ten she’ll 
beat him by making one unlikelier. And yet 
I thought I knew Anne better. Oh, children, 
children, for God’s sake don’t be rash ! I feel 
very lonely, and more heavy-hearted than I 
remember since your mother died. I loved 
that boy like a son. I love, him like a son. 
He is a fine fellow, though he has deserted 
me in this way. How I wish — Child, I am 
selfish, like the rest of the world, and harp 
upon my own special theme too much. Anne 
took a Scotch letter away, Keturah tells me. 
May it contain good news ! Urge George not 
on any account to delay writing himself. 
There has been too much delay already. 
Moreover, Keturah says that Anne is not look- 
ing well — pale, thin, languid. I must>see her. 
But to-morrow, and the next day, and the day 
after that my hands will be full, and no Don- 
ald to help me. By the end of the week I will 
come to Water-Eardley. I suppose George 
■won’t refuse to shake hands with me. I write 


this partly to let you know that I am not un- 
mindful of you all, and partly — because I am self- 
ish, like the rest of the world — to ease my own 
heart a little. Always your loving father, 

“Abel Hewson. 

“ Send to me, or say to me, or write to me 
the truth about Anne and that — Lacer. If she 
is not engaged to him the news will be the best 
cordial you could give me. It is bad for a wo- 
man not to marry the right man ; but to marry 
the wrong one— If, on the other hand, it 
must be, and there is no help for it, put this in 
the fire, and say nothing about it to the child. 
A woman never forgives sinister auguries about 
her future husband— especially if they come 
true. And Anne may want me some day. I 
would have no barrier between us that might 
make it difficult to her proud spirit to come to 
me for such counsel and help as I can give 
her. A. H.” 

That was the letter ; one very characteristic 
of my grandfather in every way. We who 
knew him understood the weight and value of 
each word in it very accurately. And we were 
sure that Donald’s departure had been a heavy 
blow to him. Whither Donald had gone was 
not stated. Perhaps my grandfather did not 
know it himself. But in all likelihood he would 
have gone to London, we said. There had been 
a talk of his doing so, in order to complete the 
studies necessary for his profession, months ago. 
But that would have been very different from 
his present abrupt departure. ’That would have 
been a temporary absence, duly prepared for and 
foreseen, and with the prospect of ultimately re- 
turning to Horsingham at no distant date. 

“I think it was very wrong of Donald to 
leave grandfather in that way,” said I. But as 
I said the words with cold severity I had hard 
work to keep down my tears, and there was that 
painful “ lump” in my throat, which I suppose 
most people have experienced, 

‘■‘We can, at all events, give dear grand- 
father the cordial he speaks of,” answered my 
mother, not looking at me, but at her coffee-cup 
— we wer^ a^; breakfast. “It will comfort him 
to know that — that report is untrue.” 

“ I wish from the bottom of my heart that we 
were away from the place und the people in it !” 
I exclaimed, bitterl}^ I had chosen to blame 
Donald for going away, but I myself felt a long- 
ing to fly from all the surroundings and associ- 
ations which had become odious to me. 

Mother’s little half-suppressed sigh involun- 
tarily reproached me for the selfishness of my 
speech, “I wish that we were away!” Were 
we not going away from the place that had 
been her happy home for many bright years — 
from the place that held little Harold’s grave ? 
Poor, patient, uncomplaining mother ! 

“I will try to be a comfort to you, darling 
mother !” I said, kissing her penitently. She 
looked a little surprised at this exclamation, fol- 
lowing almost immediately the expression of 
my wish that we were away from Horsingham. 


116 


ANNE EUKNESS. 


She had not followed the sequence of my 
ideas. 

Father had not yet left his bed. I have men- 
tioned how he had gradually come to be a con- 
firmed sluggard, and what a trouble this had 
been to my mother, until heavier griefs had 
made that seem insignificant by contrast. But 
now we said to each other that it would be nec- 
essary for father to return to his old active 
habits, if any good were to be done either in 
the way of seeking employment or in keeping 
it Avhen obtained. 

“ I did not like to rouse him this morning,” 
said mother, “ for it was broad daylight before 
he fell asleep. He was so restless and miser- 
able.” 

“I thought,” said I, “that my father had 
gone to bed in a calmer frame of mind than I 
had seen him in for some time.” 

“Yes ; at first it seemed so. But I think it 
was only seeming. He put on a more hopeful 
manner to please me. But that letter from 
Scotland hurt him more than you can fancy. 
What was the use of trying to get trusted? he 
said. No one would trust a man who had been 
false to his own family, and had ruined himself 
and them. And to be watched and suspected, 
and to have his fault thrown in his teeth by 
strangers, was more than he could bear.” 

“ I don’t think father is well. All that is 
morbid and unlike himself. I think we ought 
to get grandfather to see him.” 

“ No ,' he is not well. But when I told him 
I thought so he shook his head, and said that 
Dr. Hewson could do him no good. There was 
only one medicine that could cure him.” 

“ What did he mean by that ?” 

“ He meant that he should not be better 
until his mind was more at peace. And who 
can wonder at that ? I had fallen asleep, and 
woke up in the middle of the night, to find your 
father wandering about the room. The moon 
was setting, and I could just dimly see him near 
the oaken press that stands in the recess in our 
bedroom. I called to him, and he bade me go 
to sleep again. He had been too restless to lie 
in bed, so had been walking about to try and 
tire himself out. This morning, when it was 
quite daylight, he began to sleep, as I told you, 
and I had not the heart to disturb him when I 
got up.” 

Mother and I sat quietly in her little sitting- 
room. I was sewing, and she was making out a 
list — a very short list — of things that she should 
wish to keep when Water-Eardley and its con- 
tents were sold. We had as yet learned no 
particulars as to the disposal of the settlement 
money that had been given up. We had heard 
enough, however, to be sure that Mr. Whififles’s 
claim would not swallow it all. There were, 
doubtless, other debts — so called, of honor — 
which mother could not reckon up. Debts in 
the town there were. But these, we thought, 
icould not possibly amount to more than the sale 
of the lease and stock and furniture would amply 
cover. 


“Father owes Matthew Kitchen money,” 
said I, hesitatingly. 

“ Yes ; but that can not be much. We have 
not been buying carriages, at least !” said mo- 
ther, Avith a faint smile. 

“ Matthew’s grandfather — old Mr. Green — 
was, I have heard, a money-lender. You re- 
member that Mr. Cudberry told you so once, 
mother. Berhaps father was in Mr. Green’s 
debt when the old man died. And if so — as 
Matthew Avas the sole heir — ” 

Mother looked up at me uneasily. 

“Do you know any thing, Anne ?” she asked. 

I told her, for the first time, of the conversa- 
tion I had been a witness to between my father 
and MattheAV Kitchen. She mused a little, and 
then said : “Matthew is a hard, grasping man. 
I don’t expect much mercy from him. But he 
can not claim more than his due, and his due 
can not — can not, surely ! — be so large but that 
Ave shall manage to clear all scores Avith him. 
There’s the portrait of George’s mother; that 
he Avould like to keep, I knoAv. And I Avonder 
if I might have the Avork-box he gave me be- 
fore Ave Avere married ! Though it is fitted Avith 
silver, it is old-fashioned noAv, and I should 
not think it could fetch much.” And mother 
Avent on Avith her list. 

“ Oh, ma’am, Avill you step into the kitchen ? 
Now directly, please ! There’s tAVO men Avants 
master, and I told ’em he Avas abed, and they 
said they couldn’t help that!” 

Sarah, the house-maid, uttered all this Avith 
breathless rapidity, and her pale face added to 
the impression her agitated speech made upon 
us. 

Mother rose up from her chair like a figure 
moved by a spring. 

“ Who are the men ? What do they AAmnt ?” 
she said, in a trembling voice. 

“ Oh, ma’am, I don’t knoAV ; but — I think — 
leastAvays, Fin a’most certain, as one on ’em is a 
sheriff’s officer. I know him by sight. Joe 
Scott his name is. And — and — please, ma’am,” 
added Sarah, beginning to cry, partly from sym- 
pathy, partly from excitement, ‘ • they say they’re 
in possession^ 


' CHAPTER XXXIX. 

I MUST state as briefly and clearly as I can 
the facts Avhich Ave only learned piecemeal, and 
Avith dismay and confusion of mind indescriba- 
ble. Indeed, it Avas long before Ave became 
acquainted Avith much that I shall here set 
doAvn. 

My father had given a bill of sale over all his 
property at Water-Eardley to MattbeAv Kitchen. 

The latter had Avorked and scliemed to this 
end for a long time past. Most likely had had 
some such plan in his mind from the time Avhen 
he first discovered that my father Avas, to a cer- 
tain extent, in old Green’s poAver.. The sums 
that father had borroAved — first of the old man, 
and aftei-Avard of his grandson, MattheAv — did 


ANNE FURNESS. 




not, when all usurious advantage was taken, 
amount to more than half the real value of the 
property at Water-Eardley. Nevertheless, when 
Matthew Kitchen had not only declined to make 
further advances, but liad pressed for the pay- 
ment of the existing debts on the ground that 
he held no sufficient security for his money, 
and could not afford to run the risk of losing it, 
father had desperately given the bill of sale ; 
and, still more desperately, had trusted to Mat- 
thew’s promise that he would not put it into 
execution unless no other hope remained of in- 
demnifying himself. 

The news of father’s disastrous racing specu- 
lation had spread through Horsingham. It was 
known that my mother’s marriage-settlement 
had been given up for the payment of her hus- 
band’s gambling debts. Moreover, the rumor 
had spread throughout the town that Furness 
of Water-Eardley was about to sell his furni- 
ture and property for the benefit of his credit- 
ors. The trades-people to whom my father owed 
money were well satisfied enough with this pros- 
pect. Not so Mr. Matthew Kitchen. There 
would doubtless be enough to pay all claims if 
the property were sold — as must be reckoned 
on — even much under its value. But his bare 
due did not satisfy Matthew. He held the bill 
of sale, and resolved to enforce his power while 
there was yet time. 

The men who had come on the dismal errand 
of informing my father that no stick or straw in 
Water-Eardley manor-house, or on Water-Eard- 
ley farm, belonged to him any longer, were civil 
enough. I fancy such men mostly are so. For 
gratuitous incivility some sort of emotion is 
necessary — malice, anger, resentment, sullen- 
ness, some feeling or other. These men in the 
present case had none. The whole matter was 
to them one of absolute indifference. The man 
whom Sarah had called Joe Scott spoke to my 
mother with uncovered head and bated breath. 
It was a show of respect due to misfortune. His 
business lay with misfortune, as a funeral un- 
dertaker’s business lies with death and mourn- 
ing. How could he be specially sorry for us ? 
But he understood that a grave and regretful 
demeanor was decent under the circumstances, 
and he did his best to assume one. 

Mother looked about her confusedly, like a 
person who has been suddenly and roughly 
roused from sleep. 

“ I do not understand it,” she said. “ Could 
I not speak with Mr. Kitchen? It is impossi- 
ble that my husband can owe him the worth of 
all the property here! Every thing? Oh, it 
must be a mistake ! It is impossible !” 

“No mistake, ma’am. Mr. Kitchen holds a 
bill of sale, you know. You can say whatever 
you have a mind to, to him, ma’am. We’ve 
nothing to do with that. Only we must carry 
out our instructions, you know. Ladies mostly 
don’t understand these things. You’d better let 
Mr. Furness know as soon as possible, ma’am.” 

“Yes, dear mother,” whispered I in her ear, 
“father ought to be I'oused without delay.” 


“Quite so, miss. In fact, he — he must be 
told, sooner or later, you know,” said Joe 
Scott. 

I looked round the kitchen. The two wo- 
men servants stood helplessly whimpering and 
biting their fingers. At the open door appeared 
two or three heads, eagerly looking in. They 
darted out of sight on my directing mv gaze 
toward them. I had recognized them as be- 
longing to some of the farm laborers. 

“ Is there any one here,” said I, “ who will 
go to Dr. Hewson’s house, Mortlands, and carry 
a note for me as quickly as possible?” 

Two voices answered, “Me, miss !” and the 
peeping heads reappeared. The messenger I 
chose was a cow-boy, a lad of fourteen, swift of 
foot, as I knew, and aequainted with my grand- 
father’s house. I scrawled a couple of lines, 
imploring grandfather to come to us at once, 
and watched the lad set off with my note at the 
full speed of his long, uncouth legs. Mother 
had followed me into the sitting-room, whither 
I had run to write, and stood there now, with 
her hands pressed to her forehead. Writing 
the note and sending it off had taken little 
more than a couple of minutes. 

“Darling mother,” said I, “father must be 
awakened I Shall I do it ? Shall I go to him 
for you?” 

She took her hands from her head quickly, 
and then passed them once or twice over her 
brows, pressing down her closed eyelids. 

“No, Anne,” she said, speaking hurriedly, 
like one who can not brook an instant’s delay, 
and yet not moving from the spot where she 
stood. “ No, no, my child ! I must do it. I 
must tell him. He will bear it better from me.” 

I waited an instant or two, expecting to see 
her go. Finding she still did not move, I 
again offered to go in her stead. 

She made two or three quick steps toward 
the door, and then suddenly stopped, and burst 
out into silent, bitter weeping. 

“ Dearest, darling mother I let me go ! I 
am stronger than you. I will tell hither.” 

‘ ‘ No, no I ” she said, trying to restrain her 
tears, that streamed down her cheeks. “It is 
not that. I will tell him. But — oh, Anne, 
this will break his heart!” 

Then she went quickly out of the room, and 
I heard her step ascending the staircase. 

I stood at the window and looked out on the 
garden beds that my eyes had rested on so 
many thousand times. It was a beautiful au- 
tumn day. The distant woods had a thin veil 
of silver vapor softening their variegated tints. 
But overhead the sky was clear, and the sun 
shone brightly. All was peace and silence. 
Only the low of cattle came up from the river- 
side meadows now and then, with a tone by 
distance made not unmusical. 

But to me all was loathsome — the silence as 
the sound, the sunshine as the shade, the very 
perfume of the flowers. 

To a sick palate no savor is delicious ; and 
my soul was sick. All my senses seemed turned 


118 


ANNE FURNESS. 


into instruments of pain, instead of pleasure. 
I could not cry ; I could do nothing but stand 
as if I had lost all power to move, miserably 
waiting for mother to return, and feeling sore 
in every nerve. 

Presently she did return, after an absence 
which really had been brief, although in pass- 
ing the minutes had seemed to me almost un- 
bearably lengthened out. 

“What does he say? How did he — how 
did he bear it, dear ?” 

“He said only a word or two; kissed me, 
and bade me go down to the men and tell them 
he would be ready directly.” 

“Then he was calmer than you had feared ?” 

“ He was calm ; but oh ! there was an awful 
look in his face. A look almost like — like one 
insane,” added mother, after a long pause, and 
in a horrified whisper. And a strong shudder 
shook her from head to foot. I clasped her 
tightly in my arms. I could not speak. She 
had suddenly touched on a secret fear which I 
had tried to hide even from myself. Without 
another word she left me, and went to the 
kitchen to give the men my father’s message ; 
and I remained still standing at the window as 
before. 

“ What’s that ?” 

I found myself uttering the words aloud, in a 
half whisper, while my heart throbbed with a 
rapidity that was agonizing. I had been startled 
by a sound that seemed to make every fibre in 
my body quiver — the report of a pistol. 

Something rushed along the passage, and 
passed the open door. I saw a fluttering gar- 
ment, and the vision of a white, set face, with 
wide, staring eyes. It was my mother’s face. 
She flew up the stairs with a swiftness that was 
awful — superhuman. Others followed her quick- 
ly ; but she outstripped them as a winged creat- 
ure might. There was a second’s pause, and 
then — oh, my God ! the agony of that sound ! 
Shriek upon shriek pierced the ear, like stab 
upon stab of a sharp, cruel sword. I mounted 
the stairs in a sort of frenzy, unconscious of my 
footsteps, as if a great wind had taken me and 
whirled me upward. 

There was a crowd of people in the room al- 
ready — the servants, some of the farm laborers, 
and the two who had come on Matthew Kitch- 
en’s errand. I could not see my mother, but 
those dreadful shrieks continued. Two or three 
women had gathered about her ; the others sur- 
rounded the bed. When they became aware 
that I was among them some of the men cried 
out to me to go away, that was no place for me. 
The man named Scott even took me by the arm 
to lead me from the room, but I struggled and 
resisted. 

“ Mother ! mother ! Let me go to mother !” 
I remember crying out those words over and 
over again. I was trembling so convulsively 
that my teeth chattered in my head ; but I still 
struggled to reach my mother. In the move- 
ment thus caused among them the herd of peo- 
ple round the bed parted, and I saw — 


No ; even now I can not write it ; I can not 
think of it. My hand is cold ; my fingers quiv- 
er. All the anguish comes back again ; all the 
old scars throb and ache. I see my mother’s 
form flung, with wild hair, across the bed — the 
women struggling to raise her, to drag her back 
— her clenched hands clutching at the coverlet. 
I see an awful stain slowly spreading, creeping, 
winding horribly along the floor. I see a ghastly 
heap upon the bed ; then all is red before my 
eyes; my ears are full of a roaring sound like 
the surging of the sea ; the ground rocks and 
heaves and sinks from under me, and I plunge 
down, down into a blacii gulf of unconsciousness ! 


CHAPTER XL. 

Another “painting on the wall” of one’ of 
those secret chambers in the brain which pre- 
serve their memories with such diverse and ca- 
pricious degrees of vividness — another pieture 
out of my past life grows distinct to the mind’s 
eye as I sit musing at my desk. Memory, as 
one who carries a flickering torch, flits from 
spot to spot, and holds her light now here, 
now there, illuminating the long-unseen pictures 
with scant, wandering rays. But at length she 
pauses, and stands still before one special scene ; 
and the flame of the torch grows steady, and the 
picture clear. 

A cold, white world. A dove-colored sky, 
fretted with the black tracery of some delicate 
branches whence the snow has melted, although 
on the ground it is still lying in a smooth she«t 
that wraps the earth softly, and rounds every 
outline that it covers, giving even the angular 
garden seat a new aspect. On the surface of 
the snow many tracks made by tiny claws, and 
one bold robin nimbly pecking at some bread 
crumbs that look a dark stone-color by contrast 
with the dazzling white they lie on, and atfront- 
ing with his confident red breast and black dia- 
mond eyes the perilous observation of two watch- 
ful bipeds at a window — a tall window that 
opens to the ground, and whose bright panes 
reflect to the watchful eyes which the robin 
braves so jauntily ruby gleams and flashes of 
fire-light. In the air, that snow -silence which 
precedes a fall ; for the dove-colored sky is 
brooding softly, and there are furled-up folds 
of cloud with pale-lined edges, whence the feath- 
ery flakes will float earthv/ard by-and-by. 

Within the room whose window opens to the 
ground are three persons. Two — a young wo- 
man and a little child — are watching the robin. 
On a sofa drawn near to the blazing fire lies 
a figure covered with a crimson shawl. One 
arm is thrown outside the shawl, and is clad in 
black. A pale face, with gray, softly waving 
hair, is relieved against a cushion covered with 
damask, that once was red, but has now faded 
into a sombre brownish tint. It has been mel- 
lowed by time, as the colors of every thing in 
the room seem to have been — of the Turkey 


ANNE FURNESS. 


119 


carpet, of the curtains, the morocco - covered 
chairs, and the shining, almost black, surface 
of the mahogany table. The face on the pillow 
is very wan and thin. The eyelids are closed, 
and surrounded by dark hollows; the slightly 
parted lips drawn down at the corners, and the 
forehead is marked by strong wrinkles. The 
lines on the forehead are mostly horizontal, and 
are strongest above the eyebrows, giving a pe- 
culiar expression of painful weariness to the 
whole countenance. A dog lies stretched on 
the hearth-rug. Ilis shaggy hair covers his 
eyes ; but he blinks from beneath it with a half 
sleepy, half watchful glance directed toward the 
figure on the sofa. Within the room, absolute 
silence. Without there is silence also, as I have 
said, save for the faint sound of bells chiming 
from a distant belfry — musical, melancholy 
bells, whose tones are dear and familiar to me, 
and float through all my memories of the place 
wherein I now am listening to them. For I 
am at Mortlands, and the bells are pealing* to 
church, and it is Christmas morning. 

Presently Mrs. Abram steals into the room, 
dressed in a new black bombazine gown, the 
dye of which sends forth an odor more power- 
ful than pleasant. She has on a black straw 
bonnet, and a black merino shawl, embroidered 
at the corners with stiff groups of flowers work- 
ed in black silk. The two flat loops of hair lie 
on her forehead as of old. She is altogether 
very little altered within my knowledge of her. 
To-day she is attired in her best, and her hands 
are covered with black woolen gloves ; the touch 
of which has the property of setting my teeth 
strongly on edge, as I remember was the case 
even from my childish days, when my sensitive 
little finger-nails used to be ruthlessly brought 
in contact with the interior of woolen muf- 
flers. • 

Moreover, to shield her hands from the De- 
cember cold, Mrs. Abram wears a muff of her 
own manufacture ; a knitted muflf of white worst- 
ed, with dots of black worsted scattered over its 
surface. “ Imitation ermine,” Mrs. Abram calls 
this fabric. 

“ Is Jane ready ?” asks Mrs. Abram, in a low 
voice, approaching the child at the window ; 
whereupon Jane turns round with her finger on 
her lip, and a frown of warning severity on her 
brow, and hisses out, “Hus-s-s!” and points to 
the figure on the sofa, and shakes her absurd 
little head with solemnity. 

“ Oh, I won’t wake her, love,” answers Mrs. 
Abram ; lowering her voice, however, still more 
than at first. “Is Jane ready to come to church 
with me ?” 

Jane is ready. She is enveloped in warm 
knitted garments, wherein it is not difficult to 
recognize Mrs. Abram’s style and touch. There 
is more of the “imitation ermine” about the 
little red jacket she wears. Her tiny legs are 
encased in white ribbed stockings of the softest 
lamb’s-Avool. She has a muff like Mrs. Abram’s 
tied round her middle by a cord and tassel — 
(how I remember my own inaccessible pocket- 


handkerchief as I behold this arrangement !) — 
and wears a little bonnet with a net frill inside 
it, framing her face ; and the net frill is adorn- 
ed with many bows of narrow blue satin ribbon. 
Well and warmly clad is little Jane from top 
to toe. And there are no patches on the small 
leather shoes she is noiselessly tapping one 
against the other. 

“Are you not going, Anne love ?” asks Mrs. 
Abram, so inarticulately that I rather guess at 
her words than hear them, for she keeps her 
mouth half open while she speaks them. 

“ No ; I will stay with mother. Grandfather 
was sent for, just now, to poor old Betsy Lee. 
They say she is dying, poor old soul. I don’t 
know when he will be able to get back. So I 
will Stay with mother.” 

“Don’t whisper; I am not asleep,” says a 
faint voice from the sofa. Mother opens her 
eyes and looks at us all for a moment, then 
closes them again and gives a long quivering 
sigh. 

“ Does your head ache, dear mother ?” I ask, 
bending over her. 

“ Not ache — no. But there is such a weight 
on it. You see I can’t bear — ” 

She points, with a little feeble motion, to a 
widow’s cap that lies on the pillow beside her 
head. She has tried to wear it constantly. But 
there are many times when the crape is too heavy 
a burden for her weary brain, and she is forced 
to leave her hair — still softly waving, but now 
quite, quite gray — uncovered. But she will 
always have the cap at hand. She will never 
entirely relinquish it. Grandfather has once 
tried to persuade her to give it up ; but he never 
repeated the attempt. He said to me, after 
having made it, “ How every year that passes 
over my head teaches me toleration ! I am 
ashamed to think, little Nancy, how often I 
have been too hard on the poor women that 
cling to that superstitious bit of crape head- 
gear. I judged them with my head, and not 
with my heart.” 

]\Trs. Abram and little Jane go away together 
to church. As they are disappearing through 
the doorway, mother says, without opening her 
eyes, “Pray for me!” and turns her head on 
the pillow away from the light. 

Roger Bacon has sat up on his haunches to 
watch little Jane’s departure ; has perceived — 
by what means I know not, but I am sure of 
the fact — that on this morning it behooves him 
to make no attempt to accompany her, and, 
when the door is fairly closed beliind her, lies 
down again luxuriously in the shine of the 
fire. 

Silence again. Perfect silence, for now even 
the distant bells have ceased. I sit down on a 
low stool by the hearth-^my favorite seat, and 
one I always occupy when grandfather is not 
present. lie does not love to see me in that 
place. It reminds him too vividly of a certain 
autumn evening long ago, when he saw two 
young heads, one dark, the other golden-fair, 
side by side in the light of the red flame upon 


120 


ANNE EURNESS. 


that very hearth. Grandfather has never told 
me this ; but I — I know it. 

As I sit there alone to all intents — for mo- 
ther, if she be not sleeping, feigns to sleep, in 
order that I may not talk to her — I look back 
musingly on the past three months. My mus- 
ings follow no constant course, but they all tend 
backward, although ever and anon leaping from 
one point to another, and leaving a gap be- 
tween; or, on the other band, lingering wistfully 
around some sunnier spot, unwearily going over 
its minutest details. 

Let me gather up somewhat the strands that 
made the thread of my narrative, since that 
awful day which I can not yet bear to write of 
— and it lies long years behind me ; but from 
which, on that Christmas morning, all my 
thoughts started and fled away, like a flock of 
terrified birds. No ! Let my retrospective 
musings be what they might, there was a point 
— the grim entrance to that black valley of the 
shadow of death — at which the spirit stopped 
shuddering, as one shudders who, with averted 
head, passes some scene of remembered horror, 
shutting eyes and ears lest the recollection, 
which is not dead but sleepeth at the bottom 
of his heart, should wake and stir, and cry 
aloud, and pierce him with new agony. 

We were brought to Mortlands. After our 
arrival there, my mother lay three weeks in an 
illness which threatened her life. Great part 
of the time was passed in alternations of delir- 
ium, with terrible periods of consciousness and 
memory, during which she cried almost inces- 
santly. At last the fever left her ; left her as 
colorless and nearly as lifeless as the ashes of a 
burned-out fire. Grandfather heaved a long 
breath one day at her bedside, and, turning to 
me, whispered, “ She will live !” I had scarce- 
ly realized until then how near we had been to 
losing her. 

Then, when the peril had ceased, I began 
to look around and contemplate our position. 
During the worst time of mother’s illness nei- 
ther grandfather nor I had, as it were, lifted 
our eyes from her. I do not believe that any 
inmate of the house had thought much about 
any thing outside the four walls of her sick- 
room. Only when she began to get better had 
we leisure to remember that there was a busy 
moving world without, and that we, too, con- 
sciously or unconsciously, were being carried 
onward “in earth’s diurnal course.” 

We were quite penniless. There was no- 
thing in the world that we could call our own. 
Grandfather, as soon as we could speak to- 
gether on the subject, made me understand that 
his home must thenceforward be our home. He 
had nearly relinquished all lucrative practice of 
his profession, attending chiefly poor patients, 
from whom he would take no fee. But now, 
he said, he meant to resume his practice. 
“That is,” he said, “if it will resume me. 
When a man falls out of his place in the ranks, 
the gap he leaves is quickly closed up. There 
is enough — not much, but enough — for us all to 


live on as it is. Whatever I earn will be put 
by for you after I am gone, because when Lucy” 
— he broke off and put his hand over his eyes 
for a moment, then resumed — “because some 
three or four and twenty years ago I sank the 
greater part of what I possessed in an annuity. 
There is a little pittance secured to poor Judith, 
and there is this house and garden.” 

He went on planning what he would do, and 
what immediate steps he would take to obtain 
active employment in his profession. He was 
now close upon seventy years old ; but I 
thought, as I looked at him, that I had rarely 
seen a face and figure more instinct with vi- 
vacity and energy than his. His eyes shone 
with a radiance that seemed to warm one’s 
heart. I thought him very noble and admira- 
ble in his courage and hopefulness and con- 
tempt of his own ease, the dear, unselfish, fine- 
natured old man ! 

Mother was not spoken to about his plans. 
It was long before she could bear the sound of 
any voice but his or mine ; and if we uttered a 
word of tenderness, or said any thing beyond 
the merest bald commonplaces which were nec- 
essary in daily intercourse, she would go off 
into convulsive hysterical fits of weeping which 
entirely prostrated her strength. When she be- 
gan slowly, slowly, to get better, it befell that 
poor Mrs. Abram grew to be a sort of comfort 
to her. Mrs. Abram was quiet and melan- 
choly and dull — very willing to be talked to, 
not unwilling to talk, and equally willing to sit 
by mother’s bedside or sofa knitting away in 
silence. She had been warned so strenuously 
and severely as to frighten her into implicit 
obedience, not to broach any of her peculiarly 
lugubrious religious views to my mother. When 
speech on this subject was forbidden her, very 
few topics remained for the exercise of her lo- 
quacity, which, in truth, was never excessive. 
One topic, however, she had — my grandfather’s 
goodness. His perfections, his learning, and 
his talents were an unfailing theme with poor 
Judith. And to her sincere, if unskillful, 
praises mother would endure to listen by the 
hour together. Often, it is most likely, her 
thoughts wandered away far enough from the 
present. But Mrs. Abram had no idea of 
taking offense at any manifestations of inatten- 
tion. She was so thoroughly humble-minded 
that she was grateful for being admitted to 
mother’s companionship on any terms. 

Mother could say things to her which it 
would have overcome her to say to me or to 
grandfather. Eor instance, as soon as she was 
able to be moved from her bed to a couch in 
the dining-room, and had put on the black gar- 
ments provided for her, she commissioned Mrs. 
Abram to get her awidoAv’s cap. Mrs. Abram 
faithfully fulfilled her trust. And grandfather 
and I, understanding that mother desired not to 
be spoken to on the subject, made no remark 
when we first saw her in that dreary head-gear. 
Afterward, as I have said, grandfather tried once, 
but once only, to dissuade her from wearing it. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


121 


There was another person whose society 
mother gradually came to endure, and even to 
take something like pleasure in. This was lit- 
tle Jane Arkwright. 

When the misfortunes I have formerly men- 
tioned fell upon Mr. Arkwright — the execution 
in his house, the sale of his scanty furniture, 
and the turning into the street of himself, his 
wife, and children — he found kindness in more 
than one direction. The five children were 
sheltered at Mortlands. He and his wife were 
pressingly invited by Alice Kitchen and her 
father to take up their abode for a time in the 
tiny house in Burton's Gardens. Alice was 
just about to be married, and her father was to 
leave Horsingham for Brookfield immediately 
after the wedding. But for the few days that 
remained of their occupancy of the house Alice 
begged the Arkwriglits to come and stay there, 
“Until they could turn themselves round,” as 
she phrased it. Mr. Arkwright was at first un- 
willing to accept this offer, fearing to cause ill 
feeling between Matthew Kitchen and his rela- 
tions. “Our trouble is bad enough,” he had 
said, in his gentle way. “ Heaven forbid that 
we should do any thing to cause a family quar- 
rel to grow out of it.” 

But Alice had energetically assured him that 
he need not fret himself about that^ inasmuch 
as her brother was already estranged from her 
on account of her intended marriage, and was 
also deeply angered by the fact of his father’s 
leaving his work-shop. In short, she persuaded 
him to accept her offer. “You can come as 
lodgers, of course, if you like it,” Alice had 
said, in her blunt way; “but if you’ll put up 
with our ways for a few days without talk of 
pay, why, you shall be as welcome as the flow- 
ers in May.” 

All this I learned from Mrs. Arkwright her- 
self. As soon as I was able to see any one she 
begged to be admitted to speak with me. She 
was powerfully affected. I never saw any one 
so overcome. She tried to say a few words 
about the calamity that had fallen on us, and 
then she attempted to ask forgiveness for the 
harsh words she had spoken in her own misery 
and wrath. “If your mother would see me I’d 
go down on my knees to her to beg her to for- 
give me. I little thought when I spoke as I did 
— oh. Miss Furness, if you knew how bitterly I 
liave repented my angry words, you would feel 
for me ; and they did not come from the bot- 
tom of my heart either. But there’s one pardon 
I shall never get in this world — ” And Mrs. 
Arkwright fell to weeping silently, and with 
strong gasps, more like the w'eeping of a man 
than a Avoman. 

After a while I was able to tell her that the 
pardon she spoke of had been freely granted to 
her. “ He knew hoAV misfortune puts bitter 
Avords into men’s mouths, and he never blamed 
you — never.” 

She caught my hand and squeezed it so hard 
that she hurt me. “God bless you !” she said. 
“You take a thorn out of my heart.” 


Then she told me Iioav she had come to 
Mortlands every day — sometimes tAvice a day— 
to ask for my mother ; and hoAv thankful she 
and her husband had been to hear at length 
that she Avas recovering. Of their OAvn affairs 
she had better accounts to give than could have 
been expected. Their prospects Avere bright- 
ening. People had been very kind, under- 
standing that Mr. ArkAvright had been hardly 
treated, and that he Avas an honorable man 
Avho desired to do his duty. His rector had 
expressed no intention of dismissing him from 
his curacy. 

“Edwin had almost expected that,” said 
Mrs. Arkwright, “because he says that his case 
was in a measure a scandal for the Church. 
But I don’t see hoAV Christian people can look 
upon poverty as a scandal if they read their 
NeAv Testament.” 

“At all events, Mr. ArkAvright’s rector lias 
not done so.” 

“ No ; he — oh yes ! he has been very kind. 
He lectured Edwin a little, but — yes, Ave have 
met Avith a great deal of kindness.” 

Mr. and Mrs. ArkAvright had taken the lit- 
tle house in Burton’s Gardens. It AA^as A’ery 
small, but the rent Avas Ioav, and they took such 
portions of Mr. Kitchen’s furniture as he did 
not require in his ncAV abode at Brookfield. 
He had consented to be paid for it by install- 
ments. Sir Peter Bunny had made himself 
ansAverable for the schooling of the four elder 
children during the next six months. Several 
articles AAdiich Mrs. ArkAvright peculiarly prized 
had been bought in at the sale on her behalf, 
and sent to her anonymously. But she kncAA', 
she said, Avhose hand had done them this kind- 
ness. It. Avas Mr. Donald Ayrlie, God bless 
him ! and he had even — think of that — sent lit- 
tle Jane the coral necklace ! 

Mrs. Abram begged so hard that Jane might 
be alloAved to remain yet a Avhilc longer at 
Mortlands that Mrs. ArkAvright had been fain 
to consent. She Avas much softened in these 
days. And though it Avas plain that she suf- 
fered many a jealous pang in leaving her little 
one to the care of strangers Avho Avould pet and 
caress her, and whom she Avould learn to Ioa'C, 
the poor Avoman endured them in silence. 

Thus little Jane Avas an inmate of Mortlands. 
We had feared that the sight of her and the 
sound of her name might distress my mother ; 
for on an attempt I made (at Mrs. ArkAvright’s 
urgent entreaty) to deliver a message from her 
to mother, begging to be alloAved to see her, 
my mother fell into a violent hysterical fit, Avhich 
so alarmed us that Ave did not dare to recur to 
the mention of the ArkAA^rights’ name after- 
Avard. But in the course of tAvo or three 
Aveeks mother voluntarily spoke of them to 
Mrs. Abram. “Tell Anne,” she said, “that 
I have no rancor in my heart against the Avo- 
man. I God forgive me ! But I have 
prayed and tried to cast it out. lie forgave 
her. He spoke of her to me on that — that last 
night. But I can not see her. Some day it 


122 


ANNE FURNESS. 


may be ; but now I feel as tbougb the sound of 
her voice would kill me.’’ 

Therefore, for some time little Jane was 
carefully kept out of mother’s sight. The lit- 
tle creature herself was so impressed with awe 
and compassion for the “sick lady,” as she 
called her, and so conscious that for some mys- 
terious reason she must on no account intrude 
into her presence, that when she heard the 
slow, feeble footsteps which announced the in- 
valid’s descent down the stairs she would noise- 
lessly steal away and hide herself ; and once, 
after a long search, we found her sitting on the 
grass in a secluded corner of the garden, with 
her little pinafore over her head and face. 

But by degrees we found that my mother 
was aware of the child’s presence in the house, 
and she asked to see her ; and gradually quite 
a friendship arose between them. Little Jane 
admired and idolized my mother much as Mrs. 
Abram admired and idolized her. Mother was 
always gentle with the child. I think she had 
some feeling which prompted her to force her- 
self to endure Jane’s presence as a sort of expia- 
tion for her refusal to see Jane’s mother; but 
she was never affectionate, still less caressing, 
in her ways with her. Nevertheless, little 
Jane would sit for hours as quiet as a mouse, 
gazing up into mother’s face with her solemn 
gray eyes, quite content to be allowed to re- 
main by her side unnoticed. 

And so our lives glided away with a sober 
sadness, but yet with growing peace ; as river 
waters that have escaped, all torn and torment- 
ed and foaming, from the jagged rocks of a 
cataract flow onward toward the great sea, 
still shuddering from the awful shock ; and with 
whirling eddies here and there, and wildly 
scattered foam-flakes on their surface, which 
tell of the mad turmoil, the horrible roar of 
the rapids they have passed. 

^ 

CHAPTER XLI. 

When my mother began to be able to walk 
out into the garden — with the assistance of an 
arm to lean on, for she was weaker than an in- 
fant — grandfather said that she ought to go 
away to the sea-side for a while. There were 
sea-side places which were frequented by in- 
valids even in the winter-time ; and the air of 
one of these places would be at once milder 
and more invigorating than that of Mortlands. 
He would go with her, and see her settled in 
some quiet lodging. And she should have ei- 
ther Keturah or Eliza to remain with her during 
the whole time of her stay. Mother chose Eliza. 
She rather shrank from Keturah, although that 
good creature was thoroughly devoted to her. 
But I believe mother could not get over certain 
sharp speeches Keturah had been in the habit 
of making— long ago— to the effect that “Miss 
Lucy” might have done better— and that she 
didn’t consider that any body in the world was 


too good for “ master’s daughter.” No slight, 
or taunt, or insult to herself could have affected 
her like the least disparagement of my father.^ 
If she had been happy she would have thought 
no more of Keturah’s words ; in truth, they 
sprang from no worse feeling than the old serv- 
ant’s jealous pride in, and fondness for, her 
master’s only child ; but in her deep affliction, 
and in the peculiar anguish (far beyond that 
of most bereaved ■wives) which attended the 
circumstances of it, trifles became magnified, 
and passing annoyances intensified into serious 
pain. 

I was to stay at Mortlands. Firstly, my 
health required no such change as was neces- 
sary for my mother. Secondly, the increased 
expense of my accompanying her Avas a burden 
I was most averse to putting on my grandfa- 
ther’s already heavily laden shoulders. Third- 
ly, I knew, although he said not a word to that 
effect, that it would be some comfort for grand- 
father to have me with him at Mortlands Avhen 
he should have returned from taking mother to 
the sea. His house was very lonely now since 
— since Donald had gone away. 

As for mother, she expressed no desire to 
have me with her. Her absence would be short, 
and it Avas Avell that I should stay with grand- 
father, she said. She AA'as very passive and 
listless, save on a fcAV points. The fact Avas, 
her strength to suffer as Avell as to enjoy AAms 
nearly exhausted. Grandfather, hoAvever, had 
great hopes that the jArojected change Avould do 
her good. 

“I should like to remain, and Avatch her 
progress day by day,” he said; “but it is not 
absolutely necessary. And I ought not to be 
absent from Horsingham longer than I must.” 

He had already secured a fcAv patients of the 
paying class. And had girt himself up to this 
Avork Avith a Augor and resolution which filled 
me Avith eA-^er-neAv admiration. 

The night before he and mother Avent aAvay 
I sat up late with him talking. For the first 
time he spoke to me of Donald. I have said 
that during the Avorst time of my mother’s ill- 
ness we had neither of us looked beyond the 
Avails of her sick-room. Noav grandfather open- 
ed his heart to me. 

He had ahvays, he said, had a hope and a plan 
of marrying me to Donald, even from the days 
Avhen Ave had been children together. It had 
failed — as such plans mostly did fail ! Well, 
thank Heaven, he had not made or meddled 
importunately betAveen us. Nor had he ever 
breathed a hint to Donald more than to me of 
the hope now frustrated. 

I hid my face on his knees and cried. “ Oh, 
grandfather,” I said, scarcely knoAving Avhy I 
said it — the words seemed to fall involuntarily 
from my lips — “it is better for him as it is. 
But it is for you I am sorry. I have cost you 
the companionship, that AA^as so dear to you, of 
your old friend’s son. I Avish I had not been 
such a disappointment to you !” 

“Not altogether a disappointment, little Nan- 


ANNE FURNESS. 


cy,” said my grandfather, stroking my hair as 
he had used to do when I was a child, and smil- 
ing a little. 

“But, grandfather, I do think it was not 
right of Donald to leave you as he did. After 
all you had done for him.” 

“I have had a letter from him.” 

“A letter from Donald?” 

“Yes ; it came at a moment when I had no 
thoughts to spare from my poor suffering Lucy. 
But I was looking it over again this morning, 
and — on the whole, I can’t be ang.ry w'itli Don- 
ald, though he was rash.” 

“I can scarcely fancy Donald being rash !” 

“Can you not? A most impetuous nature, 
little Nancy, especially where his affections are 
concerned. Gentle withal, and not greatly de- 
monstrative. Ah ! Well — he did not mean to 
desert his old friend altogether. He speaks of 
coming back at some future day, when he feels 
himself able to see the old place with more 
calmness, and when — ” 

Grandfather made so long a pause that I re- 
peated, interrogatively, “ And when ?” 

“ ‘ When Anne is married and gone away,’ he 
says.” 

There was a silence, which neither of us 
brol^e for a long time. At length grandfather 
resumed : 

“The letter was written tw'O days after Don- 
ald’s arrival in London. He went straight to 
London.” 

“Then he had not heard — ” 

“No, no,” said grandfather, quickly. “No ; 
he had heard nothing from Horsingham when 
he wrote. And he met with an adventure on 
his journey. He was robbed.” 

“Robbed!” 

“And at the house of an acquaintance of 
yours. At the Royal Oak public house, near 
Diggleston’s End, on the London Road.” 

“At Dodd’s house? Oh, poor man; how 
sorry he will be I He is such a steady, honest 
fellow himself. Was the thief discovered ?” 

“No ; it seems not. Donald, I fancy, would 
not delay his journey. He hurried on as best 
he could. He does not give me the particu- 
lars of the case, except that he says the man 
on whom suspicion bears heavily was a fellow 
who passed himself for a Methodist preacher. 
In all likelihood he Avas not one really. He 
must have had some dishonest object in view, 
for he was regularly disguised. Left a wig 
and some other things behind him at the Royal 
Oak. I believe that Dodd came here once or 
twice to try to speak to me, but I could not see 
him. It was during the time that your mo- 
ther’s fever was at its height.” 

“Has — has Donald given you no address 
where you can Avrite to him?” 

Yes ; atone of the great London hospitals.” 

“When he has passed the necessary exam- 
inations to enable him to practice his profes- 
sion, AAull he come back here to you, grand- 
father?” 

“So it Avas planned and hoped. But noAv I 


123 

should not like — I could scarcely urge him to 
do it.” 

I understood Avhy but too Avell. It A\muld 
have been impossible for grandfather to impor- 
tune Donald to return to Mortlands noAv that 
I Avas there. If Donald had been rejected in 
the days before our utter calamity and ruin, it 
could not be that grandfather should urge him 
to come among us now. I felt this too: it 
could ‘not be ; but I Avas inexpressibly pained 
to feel it, for my grandfather’s sake. Yes, 
honestly and sincerely I protest from my heart 
there Avas at least no seltishness in my regret. 
If I could have purchased for my grandfather 
the happiness of Donald’s society at the cost of 
never more looking on Donald’s face m.yself, I 
would have done it then Avithout a murmur. I 
faltered out some broken AA’ords to this effect ; 
but grandfather took me in his arms, and 
soothed me tenderly, and said — I Avill not re- 
peat all his Avords, for I Avell knoAv that he be- 
held me, as it Avere, transfigured in the light 
of his OAvn love and goodness ; but he said — 

“Anne, dear as Donald is to me, you are 
far, far dearer. No human being, not even 
your dear mother, holds the place in my heart 
that you hold. My beloved child, I have never 
summoned courage to say a Avord to you about 
the sacrifice you made — There, there! cry, 
my child, if it eases your heart! These are 
not bitter tears. If I had been consulted about 
it beforehand I should have opposed your giA’- 
ing up your fortune. And you and your mo- 
ther felt that, and therefore did not consult me. 
Yes, yes — I understand it all. But you Avere 
right, Anne. I should have been harder and 
more Avorldly, and less Avise. Now the past 
holds that sacrifice safe forever. It is yours, 
and can not be taken from you. And Avhat 
earthly compensation, Avhat Avorldly ease and 
prosperity, could bring a balm to your heart 
now^ like the consciousness that you did not 
hold back grudgingly — that you gave your ut- 
most Avith a free, loving hand ? God bless 
thee, child ! I have said what it has been in 
my mind to say for some time past. And noAV 
go to rest and sleep !” 

The next morning my mother and grand- 
father and Eliza set off by the mail-coach for 

S , a beautifully situated tOAvn on the sea- 

coast. It Avas a small place then, but has since 
groAvn year by year into an important fashiona- 
ble Avatering-place. 

Keturah, Jane, and Mrs. Abram — I have 
placed them in the order of their relative im- 
portance in the household — Avere left Avith me 
at Mortlands. And a A'ery secluded, nun-like, 
sort of life Ave four led in the old house together. 

For myself, I did not once leave its precincts 
during grandfather’s absence. I spent Avhole 
days in the garden despite the cold, raAV, Avintry 
weather. Keturah insisted that I should not 
sit out of doors as I had been inclined to do, 
sensibly protesting that the notion was a quite 
crazy one, and that grandfather Avould think 
her as crazy as I Avas, if she permitted such iin- 


124 


ANNE FURNESS. 


prudences. But I walked about the garden 
and shrubbery for hours ; walked until I was 
fain to come indoors from pure weariness. 
And I found that the silence and the solitude 
and the air did me good, and soothed me inex- 
pressibly. In the evenings I read while Mrs. 
Abram knitted, and little Jane gravely received 
instruction in the mysteries of words of two 
syllables, or learned to work a sampler with 
colored worsteds. Mrs. Abram gave the les- 
son without abandoning her knitting, which in- 
deed she could do without looking at it. 

The sampler might have been the identical 
square of canvas on which my inexpert little 
fingers had been exercised so many years ago. 
It had the same queer patterns in brick-red and 
olive-green, ranged in two rows at the top as 
models to copy from. Also there were the let- 
ters of the alphabet, and the Roman and Arabic 
numerals. 

Little Jane was not indocile, and was, more- 
over, very deft and quick with those morsels 
of waxen fingers. She succeeded with the 
sampler far better than I had ever done, and 
was immensely proud of it. It was a sight to 
which I quite looked forward every evening to 
behold her gray eyes solemnly dilate, and her 
mouth compress itself severely lest the lips 
should part in a smile of exultation, and the 
delicate pink color flush into her cheeks, as she 
slowly, after nearly every stitch, held out the 
wonderful sampler at arm’s-length to gaze upon 
its beauties. This grave enthusiasm somewhat 
interfered with the progress of the work, of 
course. But it was finished at last. And the 
date, and Jane’s initials — J. L. A. — worked in 
all the colors of the rainbow at the bottom of 
it. Her joy was speechless! She took the 
sampler to bed with her, and fell asleep with 
it on her pillow. I am inclined to believe that 
life held no subsequent triumphs for little Jane 
so unalloyed as the completion of that piece of 
work. 

I was not deserted by my friends. But I 
had not as yet gained courage enough to see 
any of them. Lady Bunny had called fre- 
quently to inquire for my mother; had asked 
leave to send her a few bottles of some very 
fine old wine from Sir Peter’s cellars — “ wine,” 
as she said in a few words written in pencil on 
her visiting card, and addressed to me, “that 
you can’t get for money in Ilorsingham ; do 
allow me the pleasure, my dear Miss Furness, 
it is considered so strengthening.” 

My old school-mistress, Mrs. Lane, who had 
long ago made a competency and given up 
teaching, and whom we had quite lost sight of 
for many years, made daily journeys in her little 
pony earriage from the village where she lived, 
to ask, with her own lips, how Mrs. Furness was, 
and to hear the answer with her own ears. 

The general feeling in the town was, I after- 
ward learned, one of unmixed sympathy Avith 
my mother. Even the trades-people, Avho had 
lost all chance of recovering their money, showed 
kindness and compassion in various Avays. 


And as to our kindred — I received a very 
unexpected letter from Mr. Cudberry the Aveek 
before mother Avent aAvay to the sea. I com- 
municated its contents to grandfather, AvhO 
agreed that Ave should say nothing about it to 
my mother for the present ; and agreed Avith 
me also in the general sense of the ansAver 
Avhich I should Avrite to Uncle Cudberry. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

WoocLiNG, January 25, 18 — 

“My dear Anne,— Y ou are noAv, I hope, 
Avell enough in mind and body to bring your 
mind to bear on AV'hat I haA'e to say. I Avaited 
till such time as I thought your head would be 
clear a bit. And, not being muddle-headed by 
nature, I suppose it is clear by this. 

“You and your mother gave up the marriage- 
settlement of your OAvn accords. You Avas of 
age, and I didn’t think Avell to refuse my con- 
sent, as you know. If I know it, says you, 
Avhy does Uncle Cudberry go over the old track 
again? Fair and softly. I must take my time 
and say my say in my own Avay. Fair and soft- 
ly goes far in a day. But as things have turn- 
ed out, I feel it’s a hard case for Doctor Hcav- 
son to have you and your mother on his hands 
at his time of life. And perhaps he may say, if 
Cudberry of Woolling had haA'e held firm, my 
daughter and my daughter’s daughter AA'ouldn’t 
noAv be depending on me for board and lodg- 
ing. Not that he ev'er has said such a Avord to 
me or of me as I knoAv of. But I put a case. 
Noav this brings me to what I have got to say. 
If you Avill come and live at Woolling, and be 
as one of my OAAm daughters, there’s a home for 
you as long as I last. After I’m gone my son 
Sam Avill be master, but your aunt Cudberry 
and you have ahvays got on very comfortable 
together, and I dare say you could make it out 
still to be Avith her if Sam brings home a Avife 
to Woolling. For I sha’n’t leaA'e my Avife de- 
pendent on Sam Cudberry. There’ll be a com- 
fortable maintenance for her during her life- 
time. The girls each has their bit of money 
separate. By reason they Avill likely break up 
and go different Avays Avhen once I’m under- 
ground. Or they may get married. Any Avay 
they’ll be left so as they can steer clear of each 
other if they are so minded. Noav there’s my 
offer, and don’t say no in a hurry. Take your 
time. If you come to my house you’ll be in 
every particular treated the same as the Misses 
Cudberry of Woolling. You’ll haA'e the same 
alloAvance for your clothes as them. Neither 
more nor less. You’ll have the same liberty 
of going into Ilorsingham to see your mother 
and grandfather as my OAvn daughters have. I 
expect every one in my house to understand 
that I am the master. But you have plenty of 
common-sense, and so have I, and I ain’t afraid 
that Ave should quarrel. Your aunt Cudberry 
has been afflicting herself a great deal, as she 
couldn’t get to see your mother or you, and she 


ANNE FURNESS. 


bids me tell you that she did go to Mortlands 
several times, and you know she don’t often stir 
outside the garden fence at Woolling. Why, I 
believe, in the five-and-forty years we’ve been 
married, she hasn’t been into Horsingham a 
score of times, and all told. But there was no 
getting to see you. And she hopes you’ve been 
told that she did come, so there’s your aunt 
Cudberry’s message, with her best love. Sam 
and his sisters — one or t’other of ’em — have 
been to your grandfather’s house every day. 
And I suppose you know it. But I don’t won- 
der at your not wanting to see them. Miss Cud- 
berry has her merits, but she ain’t soft-manner- 
ed, and she’s apt to be trying when folks are 
not strong. But your aunt Cudberry would 
dearly like to see you, Anne. She has been 
cut up terrible. She has, indeed. Her own 
sister’s own son ! And she was very fond of 
George. I can tell you that for many weeks 
ours was a real house of mourning. Well, no 
more on that score, and I give you my word 
that you sha’n’t be worrited by any scenes or any 
thing, if you’ll let me bring your aunt Cudber- 
ry down to see you — her and me ; we "won’t say 
any thing about the girls till you’re more up to 
them. Now think of my offer. You know I’m 
not a romantic kind of a man. But I mean just 
what I say, neither more nor less. And I re- 
main. My dear Anne, 

“ Yours very sincerely, 

“S. CUDBEKRY.” 

This letter was written in a small, cramped, 
but very legible hand, in crooked lines, on a 
very large sheet of paper. And it was sealed 
with a massive oval lump of red sealing-wax, 
bearing the impression of the Cudberry anns. 
I was greatly surprised at the offer contained 
in it. Knowing Mr. Cudberry as I did, it 
seemed to me a very -wonderful thing that he 
should voluntarily offer to assume the responsi- 
bility of feeding, clothing, and housing a foui'th 
young woman in his family. For he was al- 
ways lamenting the cost of supporting the three 
daughters who had just claims on his care and 
his purse. I was not ungrateful. I was really 
touched by this proof of Uncle Cudberry’s re- 
gard.. But I own that when it occurred to me 
that it would be my duty to lighten my grand- 
father's burden by accepting this offer, I shrank 
very greatly from the prospect of passing my 
life at Woolling. I thought — nay, I was sure 
— that I would rather earn my bread by the la- 
bor of my hands than become a member of the 
Cudberry household. But the point I had to 
consider was not by any means Avhat I would 
rather do. And then it was easy to talk of 
earning my bread by the labor of my hands ; but 
of what labor were my hands capable ? Where 
could I find employment? The more I pon- 
dered the case the more clearly my conscience 
seemed to tell me that I had no right to refuse 
Uncle Cudberry’s offer. And I own once more 
that I grew very cowardly and faint-hearted, 
and tried to fend off the growing conviction. 


b25 

But when I showed the letter to grandfather, 
and talked it over with him, he speedily re- 
moved my scruples. 

“Don’t, my dear child,” said he, “ fall into 
the mistake of fancying that a given course of 
action must be right simply because it is pain- 
ful. Self-abnegation is as much a snare and a 
temptation to some natures as self-indulgence 
is to others. But let us try to keep as steady 
a balance as may be.” 

Then he talked with me at length on the 
subject, pointing out how much more useful I 
could be, and — he said this because he loved 
me so dearly, and his love made it true in some 
measure — how much more happiness I could 
give to others around me, by remaining at Mort- 
lands, than by going to Woolling. I had once 
before, he reminded me, refused to desert my 
mother at a time when she needed a daughter’s 
tenderness and care far less than now. In 
brief, he persuaded me — not at all against my 
will — that the path of duty for me did not lie 
in the direction of Woolling. And we agreed 
together what manner of answer I should make 
to Uncle Cudberry. Also grandfather advised 
that I should not write at once. 

“Mr. Cudberry bids you take your time,” 
he said, “and it is due to him to let him see 
that you give his proposition some considera- 
tion. Write in a week.” 

Accordingly my letter to AVoolling was dis- 
patched the day after mother and grandfather 
went away to S . 

I wrote it as well as I knew how to write, 
and tried to make my words convey the real 
feeling of gratitude in my heart, and at the same 
time the firmness of my decision not to leave 
my grandfather’s home. But I was very dis- 
satisfied with the letter, after all. I had writ- 
ten it over twice — thinking it now too hard, 
and now too weak — and at last I sent off the 
third copy, not because I thought it satisfac- 
tory, but because I despaired of doing any bet- 

On the second day after the dispatching of 
my letter, the Cudberrys’ “sociable” drove up 
to the garden gate at Mortlands. I had said 
in my letter that I should be very grateful to 
Aunt Cudberry if she would come and see me, 
and I added that I would see my cousins also, 
if they wished it. 1 thought, to say the honest 
truth, that I would take advantage of mother’s 
absence to get this first interview over. It 
must take place some time, and I Avas better 
able to endure whatever pain might be connect- 
ed with it than mother was. The first meet- 
ing would be tlie most trying, of course. And 
I own that I had not implicit faith in Uncle 
'Cudberry’s power to spare me any “ scenes,” 
as he had undertaken to do. 

Mrs. Abram was with me when the Cud- 
berrys’ visit was announced. She had a pro- 
found dread of my cousins, especially of Tilly — 
whom I do not think she had seen half a dozen 
times in h,er life — and would fairly have run 
away out of the room, if I had not begged her 


126 


ANNE FURNESS. 


to remain. But I can not say that her pres- 
ence had any encouraging influence, or one that 
tended to tranquilize my nerves. 

Uncle and Aunt Cudberry came into the 
room first, and were followed by their three 
daughters. They were all dressed in deep 
mourning. I ought to have expected this, of 
course; but somehow the sight of their black 
garments gave me a strange shock, and con- 
trary to all my resolutions, and despite all my 
efforts, I burst out crying. 

I found myself, I don’t know how, in Aunt 
Cudberry ’s arms. The poor woman hugged 
me close, and cried too, in a subdued, stealthy 
way, as if she were afraid of being seen. And 
she was altogether very quiet, and said only a 
broken word or two — “My dear child! My 
dear Anne ! IIow are you, poor dear thing ?” 
So that I soon grew composed, and did not 
again lose my self-possession, I am sure Aunt 
Cudberry had been lectured severely by her 
husband as to the necessity of behaving with 
tranquillity. Indeed she whispered to me, in 
the course of the visit, that Mr. Cudberry had 
threatened to “march her off without an in- 
stant’s warning if she made a fuss.” Also the 
girls appeared to be under some severe kind 
of discipline, which certainly had the effect of 
making their demeanor more quiet, if not less 
eccentric, than usual. 

They shook hands with me, and kissed my 
cheek in rotation, each saying, one after the 
other, “Well, Anne!” And then they all sat 
down in a row on the sofa and stared at me, 
save when they chanced to catch their father’s 
eye. He passed them in review every now and 
then ; and when they perceived this, they looked 
out of the window — only to look at me again, 
however, so soon as he released them from his 
glance. 

By -and -by Aunt Cudberry asked for my 
mother, and was curious to have all the partic- 
ulars of her journey — asking how much it cost 

to go to S ; what I thought she would pay 

for a lodging ; whether provisions were much 
dearer there than in the country, and so forth. 
To all which questions I made the best answers 
I could. 

The girls, meanwhile, having, I suppose, 
somewhat slaked their curiosity regarding my 
appearance, had bestowed a good deal of at- 
tention on Mrs. Abram. With her, they were 
not under any awe of their father’s displeas- 
ure, and tliey scrupled not to say what they 
pleased to her. Tilly had a rooted idea that 
Mrs. Abram was little removed from an idiot. 
The old story, which I had heard from the serv- 
ants when a child, of her having once been in an 
“asylum,” had doubtless reached Tilly’s ears 
by the same channel. She regarded the uncon- 
scious Mrs. Abram with an expression of min- 
gled repugnance and compassion, made audi- 
ble remarks about her to Henny and Clemmy 
as coolly as though she had been deaf, and 
talked to her with laborious distinctness, at 
the same time repeating the leading w’ord of 


her phrase several times in a loud, threaten- 
ing voice, such as I have heard used in teach- 
ing a dog some difficult trick. 

Of the cause of Miss Cudberry’s peculiar 
manner toward her, Mrs. Abram fortunately 
had no remotest idea. But it served to alarm 
and disconcert her terribly. 

“ Do you ever go out into Ilorsingham, Mrs. 
Abram ?” asked Henrietta, looking at her sharp- 
ly, with her head on one side. 

“Into Ilorsingham? Oh, I — well, I some- 
times — ” 

“ Town, you know,” interrupted Tilly ; 
“shops — streets. Streets! Ever go into the 
streets, eh?” 

“Not much into the streets, love — I mean 
Miss — a — a — Miss Cudberry.” 

“Ah! They don't trust her much by her- 
self in the streets, you see,” announced Tilly 
to her sisters. Then turning to poor Judith, 
“You walk in the garden, I suppose? Out 
there. Garden! where the flowers grow !” 

“ Not many flowers there, love — a — a — I ask 
pardon if I’m too familiar. It isn’t the sea- 
son for flowers now,” observed Mrs. Abram, 
feebly. 

Tilly stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth, 
apparently to prevent an explosion of laughter 
at the imbecility of this remark. 

“Well, but that isn’t silly,” said Clemmy, 
in a half whisper, to her eldest sister, “because 
this is not the season for flowers, you know, 
after all.” 

“La, Clementina, that’s you all over!” re- 
torted Henrietta, in her waspish way. “How 
can you be such a goose? I do believe you 
scarcely know whether people have their senses 
or whether they haven’t. It don’t seem to 
make much difference to you !" 

“You think a great deal of the old gentle- 
man, don’t you ?” said Clementina, in a some- 
what less aggressive tone than her sisters. 

This was an unfortunate phrase, inasmuch 
as it was habitually used by Keturah to desig- 
nate the evil spirit whose snares occupied so 
large a share of poor Judith’s thoughts. And 
in the confusion of mind to which she had been 
reduced, she did not for the moment conceive 
that Clementina’s phrase referred to any other 
and less terrible “ old gentleman,” and was dis- 
mayed and bewildered by the question accord- 
ingly. 

Clementina, on her side, was a good deal 
amazed at the result of her words; for Mrs. 
Abram remained, with dropped jaw and raised 
hands, staring at her. 

“You know who I mean, don’t you?” asked 
Clemmy, returning the stare Avith interest. 

I came to Mrs. Abram’s rescue, for she was 
by this time almost reduced to tears. 

“.Clementina says you are very fond of my 
grandfather, Mrs. Abram ; and I can under- 
take to answer that question. Dr. Hewson has 
no more devoted friend than his sister-in-law,” 
said I, speaking across the room, and Avith some 
little emphasis. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


127 


My interposition had the effect of causing in- 
stantaneous silence among the Misses Cudber- 
ry ; and Judith, with an imploring glance at 
me, took the opportunity of the young ladies’ 
attention being attracted away from herself to 
slip timidly out of the room. 

As soon as she was gone, Mr. Cudberry rose 
and placed himself with his back to the fire, so 
as to get us all within his range of vision. And 
after a short pause, during which he surveyed 
his wife, his daughters, and me, with an in- 
scrutable face, he thus spoke : 

“ Now', Anne Furness, I got your letter. 
’Tw'arn’t a bad letter, nor yet it warn’t alto- 
gether a good, because it answered my offer the 
wrong way. Now I made up my mind to give 
you another chance ; and I had a w'ord to say 
as I thought might be well to say before my 
daughters, so as there should be no mistake, you 
understand, but every thing clear and plain be- 
tween us.” 

Here he turned his w'ooden visage toward his 
daughters, who bridled and tightened their lips 
a little, but said nothing. 

Mr. Cudberry proceeded with his usual slow 
deliberation, 

“It may be as you think you w'ouldn’t be 
treated quite kind at Woolling — not in the way 
of victuals, or that, but — in — in — in the way of 
— being jaw'cd at, in short, or envied, or — ” 

'‘‘•Envied, pa!” screamed Tilly, in irrepress- 
ible indignation. “ Now that I wall not standi” 

“Steady, Miss Cudberry,” said her father, 
without any display of emotion whatever. 
“ You stick to your agreement, and I’ll stick to 
mine.” 

“There was nothing about ^envying' in our 
agreement, pa ; and J w’onder at you .making 
such an accusation against your own daugh- 
ters !” 

“’Specially when there’s nothing to envy!” 
put in Henrietta. 

“La, there now, my dears, don’t ye put 
yourselves out, poor things!” said Aunt Cud- 
berry, squeezing my hand furtively, and ad- 
dressing her daughters in a deprecating tone. 

“ Now'^ if you have any notions of that sort. 
Miss Anne,"” proceeded Mr. Cudberry, quite ig- 
noring the little interruption, “ I can tell you 
as you needn’t have ’em. Me and my daugh- 
ters understand one another very well. I’ve 
told ’em as your coming to Woolling won’t 
make a brass .farthing of difference to them. 
They’ll have their allowances same as usual. 
I sha’n’t leave you any thing in my will. My 
will ’ll stand as ’tis, unless I'm jmt out and made 
to alter it, which I should be uncommon sorry 
to have to do.” 

A blank look came over the faces of his 
daughters at these words, and an awful stillness 
fell upon them. 

“So, therefore,” said Mr. Cudberry, wind- 
ing up his address, “ I now make you the offer 
once more of coming to Woolling and being as 
one of us, without fear of any unkindness, or 
sharp words, or envy. No envy shall be shown 


toward you in my house so long as I’m master 
in it.” There came a sparkle into his black 
eyes at each repetition of the word “envy,” 
which he uttered with a kind of dogged enjoy- 
ment that was very characteristic of the man. 

As if acting -by preconcerted arrangement, 
the three Misses Cudberry rose from their 
chairs at this point, and said, “We hope you 
will come, Anne,” one sister uttering the words 
after the other, beginning, as of right, with 
Miss Cudberry. And each, as she spoke, kept 
her eyes fixed on her father. 

“Do ’ee, my dear!” said Mrs. Cudberry, 
humbly, and gave my hand another furtive 
squeeze. 

I could but repeat my former refusal. But 
I tried to tell Uncle Cudberry how grateful I 
was for his proffered kindness. I assured him 
that among my motives for not accepting it 
there had not been any fear of meeting with 
unkindness at Woolling. And then I said a 
W'ord or two to my aunt and cousins, thanking 
them also for being willing to receive me 
among them. 

The relief expressed in the faces of the three 
girls, when I made it plain that I preferred to 
remain where I was^ was unmistakable; and, 
though not very flattering to me, was, I reflect- 
ed, natural enough. I had never been on cor- 
dial terms with them ; and, despite my best en- 
deavors, I should infallibly have proved an ele- 
ment of discord in the Woolling household. 

Perhaps Uncle Cudberry also was relieved at 
heart by my refusal, although he let no such 
indication appear in his countenance or de- 
meanor. They all took their departure in a 
short time, and before they went I had prom- 
ised to spend a day at Woolling at the end of 
the week. I was averse to doing so, but I 
could not refuse Mr. Cudberry’s request. 

That evening, when we had been sitting at 
work by the fireside for some time, Mrs. Abram 
raised her head, after an interval of silence, and 
said, “Anne,, you won’t bo angry, love, at 
what I’m going to say ?” 

“Angry? Surely not angry at any thing 
you say, Mrs. Abram.” 

“Well, love, I — Don’t you think there’s 
something very queer about the eldest Miss 
Cudberry?” 

“ She is undoubtedly eccentric.” 

“ Oh yes, love.” 

There was another pause of considerable du- 
ration. Then Mrs. Abram resumed, 

“ButT don’t mean exactly that, love. I — 
You’re sure you won’t be angry ?” 

I shook my head, and smiled at her. 

“Well, then, love” — and here Mrs. Abram 
dropped her voice to a mysterious whisper, and 
put her finger to her forehead — “to-day, once 
or twice, I did fancy that — that she was not 
quite right in her head !” 


128 


ANNE FURNESS. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

Before my grandfather’s return from the 
sea-side I had a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Dodd. 
Strictly speaking, their visit was to Keturah, 
who had invited them to drink tea with her. 
And mighty preparations she made in the way 
of pastry for the repast ; for this was a solemn 
occasion — a bridal entertainment ; for although 
Alice had now been marri<^d nearly four 
months, she had not yet paid a visit to her old 
friend Keturah. Mortlands had been no place 
for feasting and making merry in during that 
drear time when my mother lay struggling for 
life, and the shadow of an awful affliction 
brooded blackly over us. 

But the world must go on. Grass and flow- 
ers will cover the traces of death and disaster. 
We could not expect all around us to be dark- 
ened by our eclipse. So when Keturah, with 
some hesitation, asked me whether I thought 
the master or Mrs. Furness — she never called 
my mother Miss Lucy now — would have any 
feeling against her (Keturah) inviting the 
Dodds to a quiet cup of tea some day, I cheer- 
fully answered that I was sure they would have 
no objection to such a sober festival being held 
in the kitchen at Mortlands. And Keturah 
appeared relieved by the readiness of my reply. 

Alice and her husband arrived about three 
o’clock in the afternoon, and came, as they 
said, to pay their respects to me before going 
into the kitchen. 

Alice looked as buxom and bonny and blithe 
a landlady of a way-side inn as one could desire 
to see. But I observed immediately that she 
wore none of the wedding finery which she 
might have been expected to put on on the oc- 
casion. No gay ribbon or artificial flower 
brightened her attire. She wore a gray stuff 
gown, with a little black silk handkerchief 
passed under her collar and pinned at her 
throat. This was the more striking in Alice, 
inasmuch as she had always loved bright colors, 
from the days of the blue bead necklace she 
had been fond of wearing as a girl. Dodd, 
too, although otherwise dressed in his ordinary 
attire, had a narrow band of black crape round 
his shining new hat. 

And when I noticed these things there rose 
such a lump in my throat and such a dimness 
before my eyes that I could not speak for a 
minute or two. I could only grasp the honest 
hands they proffered me in silence. 

Presently Alice, who was never troubled by 
bashfulness, began to talk ; and once set going, 
her tongue was sure to run on nimbly for a 
good while. Dodd was much more timid and 
constrained than his wife. But gradually he 
became more at ease, and, if he did not con- 
tribute much to the conversation, listened with 
evident complacency to Alice’s voluble account 
of how prosperous they were, and how the little 
farm was thriving — they had bought a few acres 
of land that lay conveniently near to the Royal 
Oak ; and what wonderful layers her poultry 


proved to be, even in the winter season ; and 
how she had taken the liberty of bringing a few 
new-laid eggs and one or two other trifles as a' 
present for Mrs. Abram. It afterward proved 
that Mrs. Dodd’s notions of a present of coun- 
try dainties was on a most liberal, not to say 
colossal scale. The taxed cart in which she 
had driven to Mortlands must have creaked un- 
der the weight of the pots of jam, store apples, 
eggs, home-made cake, and cherry brandy that 
constituted Alice’s present to Mrs. Abram. 

Alice made a sort of apology for making 
Mrs. Abram the sole recipient of her gift. 

“You see. Miss Anne, me and Dodd wo says 
to each other: ‘Now we haven’t got any way 
to please Mrs. Abram, nor any thing to give 
her as she’ll care about — for I know she nev- 
er touches dainties herself — unless it may be 
as it ’ll please her to have something to give 
away.’ That’s how we made it out. ‘Little 
Jane, and the others ’ll eat the stuff, and Mrs. 
Abram ’ll enjoy seeing ’em.’ ” 

I thought this displayed a more delicate ap- 
preciation of poor Mrs. Abram than Alice’s un- 
assisted intellect was capable of ; and I had no 
doubt that the thought originated with her hus- 
band. 

“ You came here once or twice when my 
dear mother was very ill to speak to Dr. Hcw- 
son. He was sorry not to see you, but he was 
literally night and day occupied with my mo- 
ther,” said I to Dodd. 

“Yes, miss; I did come. I wanted to say 
a word to the doctor about that business at my 
house. But I don’t know as he could have 
done any thing cither. Mr. Donald — ” 

Dodd stopped himself abruptly, colored, and 
withdrew his eyes from my face. I fancied I 
could guess why. He thought that the mention 
of Donald’s name might be painful or embar- 
rassing to me ; but I resolved to overcome any 
such notion. 

“Mr. Donald was robbed,” said I; and I 
was quite surprised to find that it cost me an 
effort to say the words in an ordinary, tranquil 
tone. “ He wrote to my grandfather to say so, 
but he gave very few particulars of the case.” 

“ Well, a very queer case it was, Miss Anne. 

It put me about terrible.” 

“ Why, you were none of you sharp, I think,” 
said Alice. “If it had been after you had a 
wife to look after you, instead of before, may- 
be the rascal wouldn’t have got off so comfort- 
able.” 

“Nay, lass; thou’rt sharp enough; but I 
don’t see as thy sharpness would have done 
much good in this case. The police could 
make nothing of it.” 

“ Police !” echoed Alice, with blunt disdain. 

“ Why, don’t I know old Hogg, the constable, 
and Williams, and one or two more of them ? 
They’re but a thick-headed lot. Old Hogg 
used to be quite intimate wi’ my father when I 
Avas a little girl. Many a pipe they’ve smoked 
together. Nay, lad, I don’t think any thing o’ 
thy police !” 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


120 


Dodd did not enter into the question whether 
the fact of Mr. Hogg having smoked many a 
pipe with Mr. Kitchen necessarily implied any 
peculiar thick-headedness on the part of the 
former ; but he began to give me an account of 
the circumstances of the robbery, which I shall 
set down in a somewdiat abridged form ; for 
Dodd was by no means exempt from the com- 
mon Ilorsingham failing of being excessively 
long-ivinded. 

On the evening of the twenty-second of Sep- 
tember, about half past eight o’clock, a man came 
into the bar of the Koyal Oak, and asked if he 
could have a supper and bed there. The road 
had been thronged all day by vehicles, equestri- 
ans, and foot-passengers leaving Horsingham, 
for the races were over, and the house had been 
doing a brisk trade in serving casual refresh- 
ments to the thirsty, dusty passers-by. But it 
was chiefly a house of call. Few persons slept 
there, Diggleton’s End being too short a stage 
out of Horsingham for any but foot-passengers, 
and the Royal Oak being a hostelry above the 
pretensions of ordinary tramps. Thus there 
was more than one clean, lavender-scented bed 
at liberty ; and the stranger, having been shown 
a room, and expressed himself satisfied with it, 
sat down in the little parlor to await his sup- 
per. He was a singular-looking man, dressed in 
black, with a very bushy head of black hair, that 
hung down over his forehead, and a great white 
neckcloth wound round his throat, and partly 
concealing his chin and jaw. 

“ I didn’t like the look of the chap from the 
first,” said Dodd ; “ but a publican can’t choose 
his customers by their beauty, you know, miss. 
I fancied he was one of them Methodys as 
travels in the religious line — a preacher, or 
something of the sort. Any way, whether he 
was or not, that’s what he wanted to pass him- 
self off for. For he began canting and talking 
about the sinfulness of the races, and pulled a 
great printed bill out of his pocket full of what 
I consider very bad language, miss. I’ve seen 
fellows distributing such bills to the folks going 
up to the race-course. And whether races is 
bad or good things, my opinion is, that’s not the 
way to put a stop to ’em.” 

Alice looked a little grave at this ; for her 
own former spiritual pastor had been very active 
in open-air preaching and bill-distributing, and 
the use of the vigorous sort of phraseology which 
Dodd — lacking the nice discrimination that per- 
ceives how circumstances alter cases — irrever- 
ently styled “ very bad language.” 

While the supper was being got ready the 
black-coated stranger remained quite apart. 
He did not enter the bar, and seemed to desire 
to hold no communication with the other per- 
sons in the house. In short, he seemed to be 
skulking. But this peculiarity in his demeanor 
Dodd confessed that he had partly set down to 
his being “ one of them Methodys.” For which 
instance of prejudice Alice justly rebuked him. 

Presently, while the supper was being cook- 
ed, Dodd w'as surprised to see Mr. Donald 
I 


Ayrlie enter the house. He had a little knap- 
sack on his shoulders, and had walked from 
Horsingham. Dodd was still more surprised 
when Mr. Ayrlie asked if he could be accom- 
modated Avith a bed for the night. But, of, 
course, he readily answered in the affirmative. 
Mr. Ayrlie seemed tired and out of spirits. In 
answer to Dodd’s respectful inquiries, he said 
that Dr. Hewson was very well ; that he him- 
self was bound for London ; and that the coaches 
being , all full in consequence of the race-week 
visitors taking their departure nearly all about 
the same time, he (Donald) had made up his 
mind to walk to a town some miles further on, 
where he hoped to get a place on a branch 
coach for London. Meanwhile, as it was grow- 
ing late, and the night was dark and threaten- 
ing, he would sleep at the Royal Oak, and re- 
sume his journey early in the morning. 

In answer to an inquiry whether he would 
not have some food, he said yes ; he supposed 
he had better have some supper — any thing they 
had. He had not eaten since the morning, and 
should be glad of a meal. 

It occurred to Dodd that if Mr. Ayrlie had 
no objection he might share the supper of the 
traveler in the parlor ; and to this Donald 
agreed, having previously ascertained that the 
stranger was not a Horsingham person. He 
did not wish, he said, to meet any gossiping 
acquaintance just then. But it seemed that 
the Methodist preacher — if such he were — made 
considerable objection on his pai-t to having a 
companion at his meal. He did not wish to 
associate with any of the godless and depraved 
men who frequented race-courses ! 

“I got a little nettled at the fellow’s bluster- 
ing way,” said Dodd ; “and I told him that 
he needn’t be afraid of meeting disrespectable 
company in my house ; and that as to frequent- 
ing race-courses, why, he’d been doing that him- 
self, according to his own account. But I said 
that if that was all that troubled him, he might 
make his mind easy, for the gentleman was a 
real gentleman, and lived with Dr. Hewson at 
Mortlands, and there wasn’t many people in 
Horsingham as wouldn’t feel it an honor and a 
pleasure to sit down to table with Mr. Donald 
Ayrlie. He seemed took aback when I said 
the name.. ‘ Oh,’ says I, ‘ you’ve heard of 
him ?’ ‘ Yes,’ says he, ‘ I’ve heard of him. 

What brings him here ?’ ‘ Well,’ says I, ‘ I 

didn’t take the liberty of asking him, because 
at the school I went to, when I was a little lad, 
they taught me as it wasn’t good manners to 
ask questions about other folks’ business.’ He 
thought it over for a minute or two, and mutter- 
ed something about its being ‘queer enough;' 
and then he said, ‘Well, he can come, then. 1 
may do the young man some good by my dis- 
course.’ And I nearly bit my tongue in two, 
to keep from giving him a bit of my mind. But 
you know, miss, a landlord’s a landlord ; and 
the Methody paid for his supper and bed same 
as another — at least I was flat enough to think 
so then.” 


130 


ANNE FURNESS. 


Donald went to his room and deposited his 
knapsack there. Dodd asked him, as he came 
down stairs again, whether there were any mon- 
ey or valuables in it, and he answered yes ; there 
was all the money he had with him in it, ex- 
cepting a few shillings in his pockets. Upon 
this Dodd begged him to lock his chamber door 
Avhenever he left it, so long as the knapsack re- 
mained within it. Dodd had no reason to sus- 
pect the honesty of the two country servants 
who composed his staff of indoor assistants; 
but he had an uneasy feeling on that evening, 
which made him anxious that no risk should be 
run. 

“ Almost like a kind of a warning, wasn’t it, 
miss?” said Dodd, with some solemnity. 

But Alice, whose mind was differently con- 
stituted from her husband’s, observed that it 
was a stupid kind of a warning, then, just enough 
to make folks uncomfortable, and not enough to 
help ’em to take care of themselves ; and that, 
for her part, she was convinced that Dodd all 
the while had his suspicions of the parson, and 
didn’t like to say so then, even to himself. 

Donald took the landlord’s advice, and locked 
his bedroom door when he went down to supper, 
and left the key hanging on a nail in the bar. 

At first the meal proceeded quietly enough. 
Dodd was in and out of the room, serving his 
guests himself, and he noticed that Mr. Ayrlie 
gave rather short answers to the other man’s 
talk. But when the boiled eggs and bacon, 
which had formed the staple of the repast, had 
been cleared away, and the “Methody,” as 
Dodd persistently called him, had ordered a 
tumbler of hot brandy-and-water, Mr. Ayrlie 
said that, although he was not inclined to drink 
himself, he would ask for a similar jorum, and 
would beg Dodd to take it in their company — 
“‘for the good of the house, and for auld 
lang syne, Dodd,’ he said,” recounted Dodd. 
“‘You and I are old acquaintances, Dodd,’ 
he says. He’s a real gentleman is Mr. Donald. 
One of the sort as isn’t afraid to be kind to folks 
for fear they should take advantage o’ him.” 

“Ah !” observed Alice, sententiously, “ when 
folks is only made of Britannia metal, lad, they 
want to be handled careful ; but real silver or 
honest pewter ’ll stand a deal of rubbing. No 
fear of taking the plating off when you’re made 
of the same stuff all through!" 

Dodd accepted Mr. Ayrlie’s invitation— the 
more willingly that he thought the latter did 
not particularly enjoy the company of the odd- 
looking stranger — but he could not remain in 
the parlor for very long together. Once, on 
returning to it from some business in the bar, 
he heard a name he knew very well uttered in 
a loud voice, and saw that Mr. Donald looked 
very pale, and that his forehead was drawn into 
a stern frown, while the “Methody,” leaning 
with both elbows on the table, and shading his 
eyes with his hands, was looking at him in a 
fixed, eager kind of way. 

“ What name was it that you heard spoken, 
Dodd ?” I asked. 


He hesitated an instant, and then answered, 
“Yours, miss.” 

“ ilA'ne.'” 

“‘Furness,’ miss. That was the name I 
heard,” answered Dodd, in a manner which 
showed that he was very unwilling to say 
more on the subject. 

After the first start of surprise I reflected 
that it was by no means unlikely that sucli a 
man as this itinerant preacher should have 
taken my father as a text whereon to expa- 
tiate against the evil and mischief of races. It 
was the evening of the twenty-second of Sep- 
tember; and two days previously my father's 
losses had been widely enough rumored in 
Horsingham to have come to the knowledge 
of this man. I did not again interrupt Dodd’s 
narrative ; which proceeded to the following 
effect. 

Donald speedily left the supper-table, and 
went to his own room. He took the key from 
the nail where it had been hung in the bar, and 
unlocked the door. The lock was out of order, 
and made a considerable noise wlicn the key 
was turned in it. Dodd was clearing away the 
supper things when the grating of the lock 
sounded distinctly through the little house. 
The “Methody” asked Avhat that was, and 
Dodd told him. Shortly afterward the stran- 
ger said he was fatigued, and should go to bed. 
He was so sleepy that he begged not to be dis- 
turbed next morning until he should call or ring. 
Then he Avent up stairs, and Dodd heard his 
chamber door shut. It Avas opposite to Don- 
ald’s. 

Soon afterAA’-ard Donald came doAvn stairs 
again. He did not feel inclined to sleep, he 
said, and Avould go out and smoke a cigar in 
the orchard behind the inn. The night Avas 
heavy, and he felt that he needed air. He 
remained out-of-doors for an hour. At the 
end of that time a storm, Avhich had been gath- 
ering, burst AAUth great fury. The thunder Avas 
loud and almost incessant, and then the rain 
came doAvn Avith a rushing noise. Donald re- 
entered the house, said “Good-night” as he 
passed through the bar, and Avent up to bed. 

The next morning he rose at seven, break- 
fasted, and asked for his bill. When he opened 
the division of his knapsack that had contain- 
ed his money he discovered that he had been 
robbed. Every farthing Avas gone. There had 
been about fifty pounds, chiefly in bank-notes ; 
but there had been a fcAV sovereigns also. The 
Avhole house Avas in commotion. The servants 
Avere called up and questioned. Dodd Avas in 
dire distress. Donald, though of course much 
vexed at the occurrence, seemed, Dodd noticed, 
to be more annoyed at being detained than at 
the loss of his money. He could not bear the 
idea of being kept there, still less of having to 
return to Horsingham. Dodd himself ran up 
stairs and knocked at the “Methody’s” door. 
He thumped and called for a minute or so in 
vain. Then he tried to open the door, and 
found it locked. A vigorous kick, hoAVCA'er, 


ANNE FURNESS. 


131 


made it fly open, and the room was discovered 
to be untenanted. Dodd rushed down stairs 
again, bawling out that he had found the thief ; 
but he only meant that he had found out who 
the thief was, for the stranger was oflf and 
away, doubtless hours ago. He had brought 
a little black leather valise with him. That 
lay open on the bed, and beside it a bushy 
black wig and voluminous white neckcloth. 

How — when — could the robbery have been 
committed ? 

The “when” was doubtless during the hour 
that Donald had been walking in the orchard. 
The “how” was not difficult to understand. 
On going down stairs the second time Donald 
had merely turned the key and left it in the 
lock of his door. No grating noise had been 
heard ; but that ceased to be surprising when, 
on examination, it was found that the lock had 
been copiously oiled. The oil had been taken 
from a lamp that burned in the passage. A 
torn bit of paper was found on the floor inside 
Donald’s room, on which the robber had evi- 
dently wiped the oil from his fingers. It was 
part of a letter. Mr. Ayrlie had picked it up, 
the servant-woman told her master. Dodd 
asked Mr. Ayrlie for it, as it might furnish 
an important clew for the tracing of the thief. 
But Donald had said, “ Oh no ; it could not be 
of any use. It was an illegible scrap of writ- 
ing.” He was much more anxious to pursue 
his journey than to remain and be worried by 
the Horsingham police, who would in all prob- 
ability fiiil to find the thief, after all. How 
could they describe him ? The man had been 
disguised. Who could tell what he looked like 
without the wig and neckcloth ? 

In short, it ended in Donald’s borrowing ten 
pounds of the landlord to take him to tOAvn, and 
setting off without waiting to give any evidence 
to the constable, who did not arrive at the Royal 
Oak until some minutes after Donald’s depart- 
ure. And from that day forth no trace of the 
Methodist preacher had been found, nor had 
the thief been discovered. It could not be 
doubted that the disguised stranger and the 
robber w'ere one and the same. Perhaps a 
London thief who had come down, as many 
did, expressly to glean a harvest at the races ; 
though Dodd admitted that Mr. Hogg had de- 
clared he didn’t believe it was done by a “pro- 
fessional” hand. 

“Mr. Hogg, indeed!” cried Alice. “Why, 
what should he know? There ain’t much 
gumption in old Hogg!” 

“It is a very strange business,” said I. 
“How was it that when Don — Mr. Ayrlie re- 
turned to his room, and turned the key he 
had left in the lock, he did not notice that it 
went smoothly and made no noise? For the 
robbery must have been committed by that time 
as you suppose.” 

“ That very question I asked him, miss,” re- 
plied Dodd, nodding his head twice or thrice. 
“ And the fact is, that if the house had been still 
he would have noticed it. But you see that by 


that time the thunder and the rain were making 
such an uproar that it put any littler noises out 
of one’s head. And then Mr. Donald said as he 
had been thinking of a many things, and his 
mind was so full of his own thoughts he didn’t 
much heed what was under his nose. He didn’t 
seem himself at all, didn’t Mr. Donald — Mr. 
Ayrlie, I should say. But you see, miss, I re- 
member him when he w^as a little short, blue- 
eyed chap, as wanted to catch the black bull at 
Water-Eardley with a rope and a running Idop. 
He said that was the way they done in South 
Ameriky. Lord, what a nice little boy he Avas ! 
Anyway, he didn't notice as the lock had been 
oiled, and so he lost his money!” 

And this ended Dodd’s history of the robbery 
at the Royal Oak. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

My grandfather came back from the sea, 
having seen mother comfortably established 
in her lodgings there. And after his return 
he began to work in earnest, and found a 
good deal to do already. He labored hard, 
because nothing Avould haA^e induced him to 
abandon his poor patients ; and as the num- 
ber of those who paid him increased, his time 
began to be very fully occupied. 

Mother derived so much benefit from her stay 
at S — ; — that grandfather advised her remain- 
ing there for a longer period than had at first 
been determined on. She obeyed him some- 
Avhat reluctantly ; for, with returning health 
and strength, her living interest in those dear 
to her returned also, and she longed to be Avith 
us at Mortlands. 

Meanwhile our life there — the life of us avo- 
men folks — Avas one of almost nun-like seclu- 
sion. Nevertheless, Ave heard occasional tidings 
of the outer Avorld. 

Of GerA’ase Lacer many rumors reached me 
— rumors, that is to say, dating from the period 
of his stay in Horsinglmm and Brookfield. For 
nothing had been heard of him, so far as I kneAA", 
since he had left our part of England. 

Alas, I heard nothing but evil of Mr. Lacer ! 
And much — most — of the evil that I heard I 
kneAv to be true. But my feeling for him Avas 
ahvays one more of pity than anger. He had 
done ill, he had been Aveak, false, and selfish. 
It Avas all true. Still I did believe (and do be- 
lieve) that the story of his neglected youth Avas 
in the main an accurate one, and I pitied him. 
But in Horsingham there Avas no voice raised in 
his favor ; and, truly, I could not Avonder at it. 
He had left debts there and at Brookfield. He 
had disappeared stealthily and suddenly. He 
had borne a very bad character among his broth- 
er officers. He Avas a sAvindler, a blackleg — in 
brief, there Avas no Avord too bad for him. My 
kind friends, the Bunnys, Avere especially furious 
against him. Sir Peter could not, he said, get 
over the mortification of having introduced such 
a person to his friends. “ A fellow of the low- 


132 


ANNE EURNESS. 


est 07iyin, I’m told. If he had even been a man 
of family ! But he deceived me on that score. 
I give you my word, he deceived me complete- 
ly.” 

Of Matthew Kitchen I heard that he was — 
not popular, but prosperous. He was growing 
rich very rapidly. Water-Eardley, or at least 
the property upon it, had been sold by auction. 
When Mr. Kitchen’s claims were satisfied there 
remained little for the other creditors. The 
remainder of the lease had also been sold. The 
purchaser of it, to every one’s surprise, was the 
dissenting preacher whose ministrations the 
family of the Kitchens had attended for many 
years. But that person did not hold his pur- 
chase long. It presently appeared that Mr. Mat- 
thew Kitchen himself was the real buyer. He 
sublet every acre of the land to a neighboring 
farmer, saving only the garden and shrubbery, 
and within a very short time he and his family 
■were installed in my old home. It was a 
strange turn of Fortune’s wheel, I thought, 
which had made Selina mistress of Water- 
Eardley Manor. 

Between Alice Dodd and her brother there 
was a breach which grew wider day by day. 
They rarely saw each other. Mrs. Matthew 
Kitchen declared that she could not invite the 
wife of a publican to visit her. Selina’s native, 
stolid self-sufficiency had grown to portentous 
proportions with her growing prosperity. She 
did no active harm. She obeyed her husband, 
and reared her children, and ruled her house- 
hold, and performed the public ceremonies 
(whatever they were, I know periodical new 
bonnets entered into her conception of them) 
of her religion. A most respectable woman ! 
Who could say a word against her ? And yet 
I have rarely come in contact with a character 
which had so little that was humane as Selina’s. 

From WooUing there came from time to time 
vague murmurs, like the sound of a distant sea, 
of — an impending marriage in the Cudberry fam- 
ily. Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son was supposed to 
be paying marked attention to one of the young 
ladies. I did not know, and I do not know to 
this day, why Mr. William Hodgekinson was 
commonly spoken of by the appellation of 
“Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son.” He was Mr. 
Hodgekinson’s son also, but no one ever men- 
tioned his father. Neither did they usually 
call him briefly Will Hodgekinson, or Young 
Hodgekinson, or Mr. Hodgekinson junior. No ; 
he was almost invariably “Mrs. Ilodgekinson’s 
son.” I wondered sometimes whether, when 
he should be married, the world would speak 
of him as “Young Mrs. Hodgekinson’s hus- 
band !” and — contemplating the probability of 
his marrying Tilly Cudberry — I really thought 
it very likely. I even allowed my fancy to 
conjure up a time when he might be known to 
mankind as “ Miss Hodgekinson’s papa!” 

We received no hint of any matrimonial proj- 
ect direct from the Cudberrys ; so, of course, 
on the not very frequent occasions when I saw 
my cousins I refrained from asking questions 


which time would infallibly answer if I held my 
tongue and waited. 

The spring came, and then my dearest mo- 
ther returned to us, wonderfully strengthened 
and restored. It must not be supposed, how- 
ever, that she was ever again the pretty, bright, 
youthful-looking mother whom — despite traces 
of care and sorrow — I had seen on the day on 
which she kissed me and blessed me and sign- 
ed away her marriage-settlement ; that had 
been a delicate-complexioned, brown-haired, 
graceful woman who seemed barely to have 
reached middle life. The figure that I re- 
ceived in my arms on the threshold of Mort- 
lands was a very different one. In the first 
place, it was bent and bowed. It was an old 
figure. Then the face was sallow and color- 
less, the still abundant hair gray, the mouth 
tremulous. But the eyes — the eyes were those 
of ray own darling mother! soft, clear, and 
sad — as they had ever been — and full of in- 
effable sweetness. She had gained consider- 
able outward calm ; and she talked to us all al- 
most cheerfully. A little pale gleam of sun- 
light flickered over the surface of her spirit. 
What dark and undying sorrow lay within its 
depths God only knew ; she never spoke of it. 

Little Jane’s joy at mother’s return was 
characteristically intense and undemonstrative. 
She sat quiet and attentive until the first words 
of welcome and the first bustle of arrival were 
over. Then, having waited her opportunity 
with astonishing self-control, she toiled up 
stairs — a laboring journey, for little Jane’s legs 
were still very small, and had never been very 
strong — and brought down her sampler and 
laid it on mother’s lap. 

I do not think mother would have noticed it 
— at all events she might not — had I not luck- 
ily guessed the child’s errand, and prepared my 
mother to admire the great work. 

Jane flushed and grew pale at the praises 
which mother bestowed upon it. Presently 
she said, with earnest, dilated eyes, 

“ I luould give it to ’oo ; but my own muvver 
must have it. My own muvver would be so 
sorry if I didn’t give it to her. ’Oo wouldn’t. 
’Oo don’t love Jane de best ; but I love ’oo.” 

Mother had been with us again about tAvo 
months — they had glided away Avith peaceful 
monotony — and the summer Avas near at hand, 
Avhen one afternoon my grandfather sent for me 
to his study. It AA^as an unusual hour, and an 
unusual summons, and I entered Avith a little 
trepidation. Grandfather’s face did not alto- 
gether reassure me. There aa'us soitoav in it, 
but something besides sorroAV Avhich I could not 
decipher. 

“Anne,” said he, holding out his hand to 
me, “Donald’s father is dead.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, grandfather ! ” , 

“He died in India. -Poor Steenie! We 
were children together. I — I Avas very fond 
of him.” Grandfather hid his face in his 
hands for a feAv minutes. I did not interrupt 
his sorroAv. My oavA eyes Avere dim. 


133 


ANNE FURNESS. 


“Well,” said grandfather, raising his head 
and tossing back his thick white hair with a 
qnick, decisive motion that was habitual with 
him, “ now I have something else to say to you. 
I’m going to ask your opinion, or rather to ask 
you to approve — approbation is the only com- 
fortable soi:t of advice, you know, little Nancy 
— to appi'ove what I have done. I have writ- 
ten to Donald.” 

He stopped. 

“Yes, dear grandfather?” 

“And have begged him to come down here 
without delay.” 

“ Here ! To Mortlands ?” 

“Yes, child. I must see him. It is right 
that I should. I don’t think he will refuse to 
come to his father’s old friend at this moment. 
Do you think he will, Anne ?” 

“ No — no, dear grandfather. I — I don't think 
he will refuse to come to you.” 

“And you, Anne — will you forgive me if I 
put you to a little pain in meeting Donald? 
You will bear that for me?” 

“Oh yes, dearest grandfather! And please 
don’t mind my crying a little. Don’t misun- 
derstand my tears. It makes me think so of 
the old days. It brings back that birthday 
story you told me once about yourself and 
‘ Steenie,’ school-boys together, and that first 
evening that Donald came — and — and — let me 
cry ! Oh, let me cry a little ; it will ease my 
heart!” 

♦ 

CHAPTER XLV. 

It was more than eight months since I had 
seen Donald when he arrived at Mortlands. 
Ho did not come down immediately on my 
grandfather’s summons, having to prove Cap- 
tain Ayrlie’s will, and to arrange a good deal 
of business connected with it. But he (Don- 
ald) lost no time in w'riting to my grandfather, 
and in assuring him that he would come and see 
him as soon as it was possible for him to do so. 

Captain Ayrlie had died possessed of a con- 
siderable fortune, all of Avhich — with the excep- 
tion of an annuity to an old body-servant, a 
mourning ring to my grandfather, and one to 
Colonel Fisher, and a few such trifles — he be- 
queathed unconditionally to his son. 

The same mail which brought the tidings of 
his death brought also a long letter from him 
to m}’^ grandfather. He had written it but two 
days before he died. 

In it he said that he had for some time been 
aware that his days were numbered, and that, 
although his physicians encouraged him to 
hope for some years of life, he himself neither 
expected nor desired to live very much longer. 
He was quite willing to go to his rest, feeling 
old and lonely, and having done his work in 
the world. 

“Old!” cried I, when my grandfather read 
me this portion of the letter. “Why, he was 
younger than you are, grandfather.” 


“Yes, a few years — four or five, I suppose. 
But I have not lived thirty years of my life in 
India; and, besides, my work isn’t yet quite 
done. I hope to make a shift to hobble on 
until it is done, little Nancy. Steenie was 
lonely, you see. His boy was almost a stran- 
ger to him. He could scarcely look forward to 
having Donald out there ; and as to Ids coming 
to England, he had given up the idea years 
ago. He had got into a certain routine of life — 
into certain habits and customs — and it would 
never have suited him to begin all over again, 
as it were. Poor Steenie was the gentlest, 
sweetest-natured, most high-minded fellow im- 
aginable from a boy upward. But he had a 
good deal of soft indolence in his character — a 
good deal of vis inertice." 

“That is not like Donald,” said I, musingly. 

“Donald! Donald! Good Heavens, no !” 
cried my grandfather. “Donald is about as 
energetic a human being as I ever encountered 
in my life. And he wastes no power in fuss. 
His poor father wrote me all this long letter 
about him. His wish was that Donald should 
stay near me. He says that in the young man’s 
letters to India he has always spoken of mo as 
having been a second father to him, that all 
Donald’s affections seem centred here, and that 
it is a great consolation to him — to Captain 
Ayrlie, that is — to feel that his son is surround- 
ed by true friends. ‘For,’ he writes, ‘Donald 
loves the familiarity of friendship ; he is shy 
and wax-m-hearted, like his dear mother ; and 
he would find life a dreaiy business without 
kindness and affection.’ ” 

“So we most of us should, I suppose,” 
said I. 

“ Some natures can do better without them 
than othei's. Don’t you fancy that if you gave 
Sam CudbeiTy Donald’s money, and liberty to 
do as he pleased with it, he would not be apt 
to pine or find life savorless for •want of affec- 
tion ? You smile at the very notion. Poor 
Steenie goes at some length into money-mat- 
tei's, explaining to me the particulax's of his 
fortune ; and he charges me to give Donald my 
best advice as to the disposal of it. My ad- 
vice on such points will not be worth much, 
but I look on Steenie’s last request — which he 
makes to me with a good deal of solemnity — 
as sacred. And therefore I have, as I told 
you, begged Donald to come here and let me 
talk with him and show him his father’s lettei*.” 

On a fair evening at the end of May Donald 
aiT'ived at Mortlands. Long bluish shadows 
were lying on the grass-plot in the garden. A 
nightingale, hidden in a tangle of fresh young 
foliage, was preluding in low, rich, liquid tones, 
and had not yet burst forth into the full rapture 
ofihis song. I have never understood why the 
nightingale’s note should be termed sad and 
lamenting. To me — even when I have been 
most sorrowful myself — it has ever seemed the 
very soul of raptui-e ; an intense, quivering 
rapture, such as no other sound conveys to my 
imagination. It is true that in its very ecsta- 


134 


ANNE FURNESS. 


sy there is something akin to pain, something 
suggestive of the mysterious sadness which un- 
derlies our highest joys — and our highest joys 
only. 

Mother had been prepared for Donald’s ar- 
rival, but she showed no agitation such as we 
had feared might overcome her at the sight of 
him. Ever since her return from the sea-side 
she had been free from any hysterical attack. 
Nothing seemed to have much power to excite 
emotion in her. I was often reminded when I 
looked at my mother of the words of a song I 
had heard years ago : 

“ I have a silent sorrow here, 

A grief I ne’er impart; 

It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear. 

But it consumes my heart.” 

We. were all sitting out in the garden when 
Donald arrived — all we women, that is, for 
grandfather awaited him in his study. 

My mother was lying half reclined in an 
easy-chair just outside the dining-room window, 
Mrs. Abram was near her, in the shadow, knit- 
ting, of course, and with a queer little tract ly- 
ing open on her knee, and embellished with a 
wood-cut which I am convinced could have had 
nothing to do with the letter-press ; for it rep- 
resented a young woman in a low gown and a 
straw hat trimmed with flowers, standing at a 
cottage door in apparently tender conversation 
with a youth attired in the extreme of fashion 
of about the year 1810. 

Little Jane was gravely studying her next 
day’s lesson in the spelling-book, seated on the 
ground not far from mother’s chair. I had a 
book, but was not reading. I was lazily listen- 
ing to the nightingale, and drinking in the 
sweet evening scents, and letting the calm 
minutes float by me — watching their course, al- 
most, as one watches the ripples of a stream. 

We had heard no sound of arrival when 
Donald appeared among us. Keturah, it seem- 
ed, had been on the watch for him, and had 
taken him into my grandfather’s room at once. 
Donald had been at Mortlands nearly an hour 
before I saw him. 

He bent over my mother and took her hand. 
He shook hands also with Mrs. Abram. Then 
he turned toward me. At first I believe he 
was going merely to bow to me ; but I held 
out my hand, and he took it for an instant, and 
then relinquished it in silence. 

I can not express the chill at my heart which 
Donald’s demeanor gave me. It was like a 
numbing blow. I was instantly depressed, and 
shrank into myself, remaining silent, or speak- 
ing in monosyllables. 

I had expected to feel some pain in meeting 
Donald, but not this pain. 

Presently my grandfather came to the dining- 
room window and called us in. It was too 
late, he said, for mother to remain out-of-doors ; 
there was a heavy dew falling. 

We all obeyed his summons, and entered the 
dining-room ; and Keturah brought tea and 
meat, and we sat round the table and ate and 


drank, and some attempts were made to con- 
verse with ease and cheerfulness ; but it would 
not do. That first evening was altogether 
blank and disappointing. How could our life 
go on if all our subsequent intercourse were to 
be equally constrained ? 

I saw grandfather watching me uneasily, and 
glancing from me to Donald, and from Donald 
to me. I feared that he — who had not seen 
our first meeting — would blame me for the 
coldness which was manifest enough. And yet 
I felt that in this case I was not blamable. 
There was no opportunity for explanation be- 
tween grandfather and myself that night. I 
told myself, in reflecting upon the events of the 
evening in my own room, that Donald must be 
excused for his chilling manner on our first 
meeting ; that he possibly was unaware how 
severe his demeanor had been toward me ; 
that without any doubt he too had sufifered — he 
was too utterly sincere for me not to believe in 
the reality of the attachment he had formerly 
professed for me, and in the grief he had shown 
on that day when we parted at Water-Eardley 
— and that in a day or two he would recover 
self-command enough to resume something of 
his old familiar manner toward me. I told 
myself all this, and it sounded sage and reason- 
able; but — it was utterly unconvincing. My 
heart would not be thus logically comforted, 
and — shall I confess it ? — I cried myself to 
sleep. ^ 

The next day Donald behaved to me in the 
same chilling way, and the next day, and the 
next day after that. His intercourse with the 
rest of the family became genial as of old. To 
my mother he resumed the respectful tender- 
ness he had shown her from his childhood. To 
Mrs. Abram, to little Jane, to the servants, he 
was his own old self, softened and made nat- 
urally graver by the losses and sorrows which 
had befallen him and us. But to me he never 
softened. He avoided me whenever it was pos- 
sible to do so, and when he was compelled by 
circumstances to address me, it was with a rigid 
formality which w'as never for a moment re- 
laxed. 

After enduring a week of this, I went to my 
grandfather and- told him that, loth as I was 
to do any thing which might make his position 
difficult, or which might cause him pain, I felt 
it to be impossible for me to go on living under 
the same roof with Donald Ayrlie, eating at 
the same table, forming part of the same family 
circle, while he plainly showed me, in every 
look and every tone, that my presence was irk- 
some and distasteful to him. And that I would 
ask his (grandfather’s) leave to pay a promised 
visit to Woolling. I had no doubt I should 
be able to extend the visit to a few weeks, by 
Avhich time Donald would in all likelihood have 
departed from IMortlands. 

Grandfather was distressed by my Avords. 
And ho AA^as all kindness and affeetion to me. 
But he Avas unable to deny that Donald Avas 
treating me badly. He Avas grieved, surprised, 


ANNE FURNESS. 


13o 


puzzled, he said ; but he could not deny the 
fact. 

“And what, after all, have I done to merit 
such treatment, grandfather?” I said. “If 
Donald had ever — had ever — felt for me as he 
once professed to feel, surely he could not have 
grown thus rancorous. It is unreasonable — 
cruel !” 

I broke down, and cried bitterly. My wo- 
manly pride would have prevented me from 
yielding to this weakness in Donald’s presence ; 
but I was so sure of grandfather’s sympathy, 
so confident that he would not misinterpret my 
emotion, that I gave way to it, after a moment- 
ary struggle, unrestrainedly. 

“Come, come, my dear child,” said grand- 
father, stroking my hair fondly, “ this will nev- 
er do ! I can not have my little Nancy made 
unhappy. I can not have her driven from my 
house for all the Donalds in the world. He 
has some crotchet in his head ; there is some 
misapprehension. I must try to set it right.” 

“ Oh, pray, dear grandfather, say nothing to 
Donald about this ! I could not bear that he 
should think — that he should fancy — ” 

“ Have no fear, my Nancy, that I shall com- 
promise your feminine dignity. Donald shall 
fancy nothing but the simple truth, so far as I 
am able to set it before him.” 

However, I still persisted in my project of 
going to Woolling for a little time. I wrote to 
Aunt Cudberry, who returned a cordial invi- 
tation to me to come and stay for as long a 
time as I could. Grandfather, after a little 
opposition, came round to my plan. In truth, 
I felt that some change was becoming abso- 
lutely necessary for me. I was nervous, and 
wretched. I had noAv'no special active duties 
to perform for my mother. I could be well 
spared for a week or two. Even grandfather 
would miss me less, now that he had Donald. 
The daily meeting with Donald — hoping each 
morning to find in him some semblance of his 
old self, some beam of the former frank kind- 
ness toward me in his eyes — and the daily dis- 
appointment of his cold and distant greeting, 
was almost more than I could bear. I felt so 
helpless, so unable to appeal to our old affec- 
tion.ate friendship. My tongue was tied, my 
spirit was fettered, by the remembrance of Don- 
ald’s declaration at Water-Eardley. How could 
I go to him and beg him to take me back into 
his heart? How could I do so — now? My 
feeling toward him fiuctuated. Sometimes I 
thought that, but for the remembrance of that 
day when he had asked me to be his wife, 
I could have knelt down before him and taken 
his hand, and cried, “Donald, let us love each 
other and trust each other as we did when 
we were children. If I have pained you, for- 
give me. Be kind and gentle with me, Don- 
ald, for I have suffered greatly, and my heart 
is sore.” 

At other times my pride rose, and my sense 
of justice was outraged by his frigid demeanor. 
What had I done, after all ? How had I mer- 


ited to be so treated ? I had never willingly 
deceived him by word or deed. It was too 
harsh, too unreasonable. I would shake off 
my depression, and care no more for one who 
evidently had ceased to care for me. 

But whatever other phase of feeling I passed 
through, I never attained to that of not caring. 

Mother expressed a little surprise at my de- 
termination to go to Woolling. Would they 
behave kindly and considerately to me there ? 
She was afraid they would be rough, and that 
I should find myself in an uncongenial atmos- 
phere. But she did not seriously oppose my 
going from the first ; and when grandfather told 
her that I was running the risk of growing mor- 
bidly sensitive and depressed, and that a change 
— even a change to the society of not too sym- 
pathetic persons — would do me good in mind 
and body, she even urged me to depart. 

Accordingly one day I had my clothes packed 
in a little black box, and quietly mounted in a 
fly from Horsingham, to be driven to Woolling. 
Mr. Cudberry had offered to send for me ; but 
I preferred to go in my own fiishion. 

As the fly left Mortlands garden gate Don- 
ald appeared, on his way home to dinner, and 
the driver of the fly knowing him, and seeing 
him glance curiously to discover the occupant 
of the vehicle, touched his hat and pulled up to 
give Donald an opportunity of speaking to me. 

I was heartily vexed at the man’s proceed- 
ing ; but there was no help for it. 

“Oh, Anne! Is it you?” stammered Don- 
ald, in considerable surprise, when he saw me. 

“Yes; I — I — am going — ” 

“ Going! You are not going away?” 

There was more impulse and warmth in his 
manner as he leaned forward into the coach to 
look at me than I had encountered from him 
for many a long day. For once his cold man- 
ner would have been the best for me. It would 
have given me courage. The little gleam of 
sunshine melted me. I could scarcely speak, 
and made a desperate and not wholly success- 
ful struggle to keep back my tears. 

“I am going on a visit. I — I have not been 
quite well, and the — the — change is thought 
good for me. Good-by.” 

I signed to the driver to go on. As he drove 
atvay I leaned back in a corner of the coach and 
covered my face with my handkerchief; not, 
however, before I had seen Donald’s face for 
one brief moment as he stood, hat in hand, be- 
side the garden gate and looked after me. He 
looked very sad. There was a wistful, tender 
expression in his eyes, and his forehead was 
knitted into painful lines. It seemed as if — al- 
most as if he was sorry to see me depart. 

And yet how could that be? He had shown 
me that my presence irked him ; so, of course, 
he could not regret me. 

Besides — 


13G 


ANNE FURNESS. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

I OCCUPIED a rambling, sloping-floored cham- 
ber in the old part of the house at Woolling. I 
had chosen it myself. A long occupation of 
the guest-chamber at Woolling was dreadful to 
my imagination. It had been prepared for me 
by Uncle Cudberry’s express order. lie never 
interfered in the household arrangements save 
when his wife or daughters sought to relax his 
tight grip of the purse-strings. But on this oc- 
casion he had, as he told me, explicitly com- 
manded that the best spare room in his house 
should be prepared for me. However, I per- 
suaded him (after having tenanted it for one 
night) to allow me to change my quarters. 

The best room w'as stuffy, low-pitched, small- 
windowed, carpeted, curtained, dreary beyond 
description. Drab hangings of some thick wool- 
en stuff excluded all air from the bed, whereon 
were piled feather-stuffed pillows and a great 
mass of down covered with blankets and coun- 
terpanes, which it made one gasp to look upon 
in the hot summer weather. My new chamber 
was bare and poorly furnished enough ; but one 
breathed there, and could get a pleasant peep 
at the landscape behind the house from the old- 
fashioned lattice windows in the thickness of 
the wall. These reasons I alleged for wishing 
to occupy it ; but there was, besides, another 
reason, which I could scarcely avow, but which 
was a powerful one with me. In the “best” 
room I should have been exposed to frequent 
incursions from my cousins, whereas in the old 
part of the house I was much more secluded 
and inaccessible. 

I think that I rather conciliated the girls — 
unconsciously I am bound to confess — by re- 
moving from the best room. My occupying it 
at all had been contrary to those mysterious 
traditional laws which governed the home life 
of the Cudberry family. That sacred apart- 
ment was for elder guests. I was too young 
and altogether too insignificant to have any 
right to the dignity which was conferred by 
sleeping therein. 

No limit had been fixed for my stay. I was 
to remain. Uncle Cudberry said, as long as I 
liked, and the longer the better. In my own 
mind I had resolved not to return to Mortlands 
until Donald should be gone, unless any unex- 
pected circumstance should meanwhile make 
my presence desirable to my mother or grand- 
father. But I said nothing about my resolu- 
tion at Woolling. 

The days passed away monotonously, but 
peacefully on the whole. Little sharp speech- 
es and the general angularity of character which 
distinguished my cousins hurt me no more as 
they had once done. My mind and heart were 
now preoccupied with other and graver things. 
They all saw and said — for their candor in ex- 
pressing any thing unpleasant was quite perfect 
— that Anne had grown dull and mopish and 
“quite like an old woman.” But they would 
add to this observation others such as the fol- 


lowing : “ Oh, well, of course, you know, it can’t 
be expected that Anne should have got overall 
the troubles so quick !” or “Ah, I don’t suppose 
that you’ll ever be what you were again, Anne 
Furness. And perhaps, on the whole, it is for 
the best ; for your spirit was terribly high — 
now wasn’t it ?” 

But, on the whole, as I have said, the days 
went by peacefully. I was able to spend a good 
many hours by myself. The inclination for sol- 
itude had grown on me of late. The Cudberrys 
considered it part of my general “mopislmess,” 
and, luckily, did not take it as a personal affront 
to the family. I used to sit up in the sloping- 
floored room I had chosen and stare out over the 
landscape for hours at a time. The house would 
be quite silent — that part of it at all events — 
and the summer sunlight would quiver on the 
floor, and cast there the shadows of the diamond- 
paned lattice ; and the flies would buzz around 
me with a sleepy sound, and the whole air would 
seem to be the quintessence of dreamy indo- 
lence, which entered’into one’s very blood. 

Once Uncle Cudberry asked me what I did 
up there in my room all the morning ; and when 
I most truthfully answered, “Nothing,” he shook 
his head, and gave me a lecture against listless 
idleness. 

“ Oh, Uncle Cudberry,” said I, “ we are born 
not only to do, but to be and to suffer. Let me 
‘ be’ and ‘ suffer.’ I feel a sort of vegetable life 
in me when I sit at the open window with the 
air breathing on my foi'ehead. I don’t know 
that I am altogether idle ; I am ‘ being.’ ” 

Neither the girls nor poor dear Aunt Cud- 
berry in the least understood this speech ; but 
I think Uncle Cudberry did, for he snubbed 
Tilly when she screamed out in hilarious dis- 
dain of my stupidity, “ Good gracious, Anne ! 
A vegetable life ! What will you say next ? 
And comparing yourself to a verb — ‘ to be,’ ‘ to 
do,’ or ‘ to suffer !’ Well, for my part, I should 
be very sorry to get into that condition. I al- 
ways had an active mind, and always shall 
have.” 

Upon which her father told her that an act- 
ive mind and an active tongue were by no 
means the same or even similar things. And 
he took care that I was not molested in my sol- 
itary hours after that. 

Sam Cudberry was not very frequently at 
home during the day. To use his own phrase, 
he “fought shy” of me. I reminded him of 
unpleasant topics. Indeed, he frankly said that 
he couldn’t bear being made to remember any 
thing disagreeable ; and that he couldn’t look 
at me without remembering how he had been 
“let in” by Lacer; and he should think that 
that was disagreeable enough for a fellow, wasn’t 
it? By Jove! In answer to some inquiries of 
mine he admitted that the extent to which 
Gervase Lacer had cheated him was only by 
defrauding him of the amount he (Sam) was to 
have received as a bribe for holding his tongue 
about the fatal race-horse whose failure had 
ruined us all. “ He did want to borrow’ some 


137 


ANNE FURNESS. 


ready tin,” said Sam, with a cunning grin ; “ but I 
I wasn’t quite so green as all that comes to ! — not 
if S. Cudberry, Junior, was aware of it. But he 
did me all the same, because I stumped up some- 
thing to make my sister Tilly hold her tongue. 
And she got a sort of hold upon me ; and she 
got the money, and I got — nothing ! And you 
catch Tilly giving up a dump when she's once 
grabbed it ! And once, when soft sawder didn’t 
do when I tried to coax her out of what she’d 
had of me on false pretenses, and I tried to 
bully her, she threatened to go to the governor 
and split upon the whole thing then and there. 
That’s a nice kind of sister for a fellow to have, 
isn’t it? So you see, Anne, you can’t wonder 
at my' not particularly enjoying the sight of 
your countenance at the family dinner-table.” 

I very coolly' assured him that our distaste 
for each other’s society was quite mutual, but 
that so long as I remained the guest of his fa- 
ther and mother I should take care to treat him 
with civility. And so we remained on perfect- 
ly peaceable terms. 

But, coarse, selfish, and unfeeling as Sam 
Cudberry was at all times, something had oc- 
curred quite recently to ruffle his temper to an 
unusual degree. He had been paying assidu- 
ous court to Barbara Bunny, and Barbara Bun- 
ny one day point-blank refused him. There 
was no disguise or concealment about the fact 
in the family. Sam came home and complain- 
ed loudly of Barbara’s behavior. It was a cu- 
rious scene, and I witnessed it all very quietly 
from a corner behind Aunt Cudberry’s arm- 
chair in the drawing-room, where we were all 
assembled after dinner. 

“It’s come to something, I think,” said Sam, 
stamping about the room, and beginning to pull 
off a pair of lavender-colored gloves he had 
donned for the occasion (for Sam had not been 
dining at home, but had passed the morning at 
Ilorsingham) — “it’s come to something when 
a Cudberry of Woolling is refused by a Bunny !” 

Here he gave his smart glove a violent wrench ; 
but being suddenly restrained by prudential con- 
siderations, he stopped, looked at it, drew it off 
carefullyq folded it within its fellow, and put 
them both into his pocket. 

“Refused? Never!” screamed the girls in 
chorus. 

“La, my! Well, there now, never mind, 
poor dear thing!” said Aunt Cudberry, with an 
agitated voice, and her most gutta-perchian 
changes of countenance. A stranger would 
have supposed her to be smiling affi\bly had he 
looked merely at her mouth, and to be on the 
point of crying had he confined his attention to 
the upper part of her face. 

“ Never mind, ma !” echoed Tilly. And cer- 
tainly it was a singular phrase wherewith to ad- 
dress a rejected wooer. But Tilly did not re- 
gard it merely in that light, for she proceeded : 

‘ ‘ Oh, it’s all nonsense never minding ! But you 
Avould see the family trampled in the mire, for 
all you’d care, ma. But Bnnnys are not going 
to gallop quite over us, I hope ! Not Biinnys !" 


“This is your friend. Miss Anne,” said Sain, 
suddenly turning to me. “What do you think 
of this?” 

“Really, Sam, my predominant feeling is sur- 
prise. I had no idea that you intended to pro- 
pose to Barbara.” 

“ W ell, p’r’aps not ; but she had, I can tell you.” 

“I have never, to speak honestly', seen any 
thing in Barbara’s manner toward you which 
could be taken for encouragement.” 

Here Henny observed in an audible “ aside” 
that people’s notions differed, and that Anne’s 
idea of what was encouragement to a gentleman 
and what wasn’t might possibly vary very wide- 
ly from the standard of demeanor which was ex- 
pected in Sir Peter Bunny’s daughter. Hen- 
rietta was always peculiarly venomous toward 
me ; but I had not the smallest intention of al- 
lowing myself to be tempted into a quarrel with 
her ; so I proceeded, addressing Sam — 

“But though I must render this justice to 
Barbara, I am very sorry, Sam, for your dis- 
appointment. And if your feelings were en- 
gaged—” 

“Oh, feelings be blowed ! You don’t fancy 
I’m a-going to fret myself about her, do you? 
And as to disappointment, I know whose the 
loss is, I flatter myself.” 

Well as I thought I knew my second-cousin, 

I stared at him in momentary surprise on hear- 
ing this speech. He caught my look, and re- 
garding me sideways sulkilv, said, 

“Well?” 

“Well — I — well, then, since you are neither 
heart-j^roken nor even greatly disappointed, I 
confess I don’t see what you complain of.” 

Here I was fallen foul of by the whole party. 
Even Aunt Cudberry shook her lopsided cap 
at me, and said, 

“Why, deary me, Anne, think what they 
sprung from, poor things, you know !” 

The girls were furiously indignant, and Tilly 
was impelled by the excitement of her wrath 
to rise to quite lofty regions of eloquence. If 
Bunnys were to trample on Cudberrys of Wool- 
ling, what hold-fast and security remained in 
the world for law and order? Even Virtue’s 
self might be disdained and disregarded, at that 
rate. And could I — I who had the honor to 
be, however distantly, connected with that fam- 
ily — excuse and condone the presumptuous te- 
merity of a Bunny ? Tilly was sorry for my 
state of mind if I could do so. 

“Why, come,” said I, in a momentary lull 
of the storm I had raised, “after all, the whole 
matter amounts to this : Miss Bunny and Lady 
Bunny and Sir Peter may all entertain the high- 
est respect for your family, only Barbara does 
not like Sam well enough to marry him. You 
can’t pretend that she is bound to fall in loA'e 
with him merely because his name happens to 
be Cudberry ! Suppose a similar thing to take 
place here, would any of you think yourselves 
obliged to marry the first man that asked you, 
whether you liked him or not, just because he 
had a longer genealogy than you have ?” 


138 


ANNE FURNESS. 


“One of usT' cried the three sisters, in shrill 
scorn. And then Tilly added, with extraordinary 
emphasis, “Oh, that’s a very different thing!” 

And, what is strange, but true, she really 
thought so. 

When Uncle Cudberry came to be told of 
Sam’s unsuccessful suit he displayed no such 
violent indignation as his children had done ; 
but he was obviously displeased. He vented 
his displeasure, however, chiefly on the head of 
Sam for having ever entertained the idea of al- 
lying himself with what Uncle Cudberry called 
“them sort of breed.” 

“ And pray what was you a-going to live on, 
S. Cudberry, Junior, if I may take the liberty of 
inquiring ?” said he, at supper that evening, in 
his dryest manner. 

“Why, Barbara ’ll have something. Her 
governor means to shell out pretty handsome 
for her. Of course I found that out before- 
hand ; and you’ve been telling me for two or 
three years past that when I married you’d 
make some suitable arrangement for me. You 
know you’ve said so.” 

“Ay, ay, if so be you’d ha’ married to please 
me, son Samuel. And as to two or three years, 
my lad, it’s a sight longer ago than that! For 
YOU are — let me see — how old is our son, Mrs. 
Cudberry?” 

“Forty-two next Michaelmas, poor dear,” 
replied his wife, in a plaintive tone. 

“You’re a old bachelor, you know, that’s 
what you are. In fact,” looking round on his 
discomfited offspring, “ you’re every one of you 
getting on in life. I don’t see much chance 
for you. Even Sam here, as can do, as you 
girls can’t, go and ask some ’un to have him, 
it’s no go. The lass sends him off with a flea 
in his ear ! Maybe that when I’m under the 
turf, and Stim Cudberry the younger reigns in 
my stead, some woman or other ’ll marry him 
to be mistress of Woolling. But on his own 
merits — dash me if I don’t begin to think it’s a 
poor look-out altogether!” 

It was in this way that Mr. Cudberry dis- 
played the mortification and ill-humor which 
Sam’s rejection had evidently caused him. His 
three daughters retired from the table in a quiv- 
er of speechless anger, and his wife shed abun- 
dant tears. Sara w'as the most unconcerned 
of the party. 

I really pitied the girls, and would have said 
some kind or soothing word to them if I had 
been permitted to do so; but at my first at- 
tempt they flounced off to their own rooms, and 
for once I could sympathize with their irritated 
feelings. 

I was sitting at the open window in my bed- 
room at about half past ten o’clock that night, 
when I was startled by a very gentle tap at the 
door. At that time all was quiet. The house- 
hold kept early hours, and there was no sound 
of voice or footstep to be heard. I had put out 
my candle, and there was no light in my room 
save a faint glimmer near the window from the 
starry sky. 


I listened nervously, and in about a nlinute 
the tap was repeated. By this time my intel- 
lect had arrived at the conclusion — doubtless ^ 
obvious already to the reader — that any person 
coming to my room with a felonious intention 
would undoubtedly omit the ceremony of knock- 
ing at the door. So I called out softly, “Who 
is there ?” 

“Me!” was the ungrammatical but reassur- 
ing response ; for I recognized Clementina’s 
voice in the utterance of the monosyllable. 

I immediately opened the door and admitted 
her. She must have groped her way up in the 
dark, for she held no light in her hand. And, 
indeed, the regulations as to the quantity of 
candle allowed per week to each bedchamber 
w'ere very stringent at Woolling, and necessi- 
tated the greatest care if one desired not to be 
obliged to go to bed in the dark. 

“ Why, Clemmy,” said I, “is it you ? Come 
in. Is there any thing the matter ?” 

“Oh, nothing particular. It’s only — only 
about me.” 

I made her come and sit down near me by 
the window ; and, though the night was warm, 

I threw a shawl over her shoulders, for she had 
come from her own room in her petticoat and 
a little thin white jacket, and had removed her 
shoes in order to tread noiselessly. Her hair 
hung down on one side of her face, and was 
carelessly tucked up with a comb on the other. 
All this I saw by the starlight, my eyes being 
accustomed to the dimness. And as Clemen- 
tina sat down, and, leaning her arm on the win- 
dow-sill, looked up at the sky, I was struck by 
something graceful in the outline of her face and 
figure which I had never noticed there before. 

“Oh, Clemmy,” said I, impulsively, “why 
don’t you always wear your hair loose ? You 
look so much better.” 

“What, like this?” 

“No, not exactly in that disheveled fashion ; 
but less tight and formal than you usually put 
it up. You have quite pretty hair. I never 
knew it before.” 

“lUe never wear our hair loose. We don’t 
think it looks proper,” answered poor Clemmy, 
with a half-doubtful shake of the head. 

That “ we” appeared to her to be a tower of 
strength. 

“Well,” said I, “what brought you here at 
this hour, Clementina ?” 

“Do I disturb you?” 

“No ; as you see, I was not thinking of go- 
ing to bed yet a while.” 

After a good deal of hesitation, and in the 
peeuliar phraseology of the family, which by 
this time I had learned to comprehend very 
fairly, Clemmy at length confided to me that 
she had a suitor whom she “ liked very well” 
(in non-Cudberry English, was very fond of), 
and who wished to ask her parents’ permission 
to marry her. But she had always hitherto 
dissuaded him, on one pretext or another, from 
speaking to her father. And now the suitor 
was getting out of patience, and poor Clemmy 


ANNE FURNESS. 


139 


did not know what to do, and had come to me 
for advice. 

“But, good gracious, Clementina, if you like 
him, and are willing to marry him, why should 
you not let him speak to your father?” I ex- 
claimed. 

She was silent. 

“ Is he very poor, or is there any thing in his 
circumstances which would be likely to make 
Uncle Cudberry refuse his consent?” 

“Oh no ! He’s — if you’ll promise not to tell 
again without my leave. I’ll tell you who it is. 
It’s Mrs. Ilodgekinson’s son.” 

So far as I knew, there could be no possible 
objection to this young man. He was an only 
son, and his parents were rich farmers, who 
were much respected in the county. 

“Why, Clemmy,” I cried, giving her a kiss, 
“ I congratulate you ! It seems to me to be a 
most suitable match in every way.” 

It was curious to see Clemmy’s newly awak- 
ened feelings struggling with the habitual stiff- 
ness and hardness of the family manner. She 
first drew back quite abruptly from my prof- 
fered caress, and then returned my kiss timid- 
ly, and said, “Oh, thank you, Anne!” 

“I remember that — that young Mr. Hodge- 
kinson.” I had been on the point of calling 
him “Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son,” from the sheer 
force of example. “ I remember that he seemed 
very gentle and good-tempered.” 

“Yes ; he’s very good-tempered.” 

“And well-looking, I think?” 

“I — we all think him quite nice-looking,” 
said Clementina, demurely. 

“And his parents are on friendly terms with 
yours, and you are neighbors; and, upon my 
word, it seems to me that you could not have 
made a better choice !” 

“ Oh, but — ” 

“But what?” 

“Why, they thought — we thought — or at 
least she thought — that he was going to propose 
to Tilly.” 

Then it all came out. William Hodgekin- 
son’s visits to Woolling had been interpreted 
by the whole family as having for their object 
to pay court to “Miss Cudberry.” Miss Cud- 
berry came first ; that was the rule of the fam- 
ily. Any marrying or givings in marriage which 
might take place among the Cudberrys ought, 
in right and justice and propriety, to commence 
with Miss Cudberry, and the rest might follow 
in due succession. But perversely to select the 
youngest of the three sisters, and to pass by 
the prior claims of the two elder ones, was a 
high crime and misdemeanor, whose enormity 
weighed poor Clemmy down, and made her 
tremble at the prospect of revealing the pro- 
posal that had been made to her. 

I consoled her and reassured her as well as 
I could. “Your lover” — Clemmy nearly jumped 
off her chair at the word — “did not deceive 
Tilly by paying her any marked attention, did 
he?” 

Oh no ! At least — The fact is, he is 


afraid of Tilly — awfully afraid of her! But 
then, of course, you know, we all thought — at 
least they all thought — naturally, that she was 
the object of William’s coming — Miss Cudber- 
ry, you know !” 

“Well, well, my dear Clemmy, that can’t be 
helped,” I rejoined, rather impatiently. “ They 
were all mistaken, and nobody can be blamed. 
People don’t fall in love by the table of preced- 
ence, and I am sure it would be very unrea- 
sonable to expect that they should.” 

In my own mind I had little doubt that Un- 
cle Cudberry would look on the proposed alli- 
ance very favorably, and would in no wise re- 
sent the fact that it was his youngest, and not 
his eldest daughter, who was thus sought in 
marriage ; and I tried to convince Clemmy of 
this, and to point out to her, as delicately as I 
could, that if she had her father on her side she 
need not fear any other member of the family. 

But Clemmy was in mortal terror of her fa- 
ther; and before she left me she had gained 
from me a promise, which I suppose was the 
main object of her coming to me, that I would 
take upo^i myself the task of breaking this mighty 
matter to Uncle Cudberry the next morning. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

I EASILY found an opportunity of perform- 
ing my embassy to Uncle Cudberry. I found 
him a little after noon in the old barn wherein 
our memorable interview had taken place last 
year. He had been tramping over the farm in 
the hot sunshine, and had withdrawn into the 
cool shelter of the barn’s thick walls to enjoy 
his hmch, which consisted of bread and cheese 
and home-brewed beer in a flat stone bottle. 

Ilis first words, after silently and attentive- 
ly listening to what I had to say, rather took 
me aback. 

“ The chap don’t expect any thing doicn wi’ 
Clemmy, does he ?” 

“A — a — any thing down ? I don’t knotv.” 

“Ah, but I must know; because I never 
meant to give none on ’em any thing but their 
clothes until after I was dead. One hundred 
pounds to buy the trusso” — thus Uncle Cudber- 
ry pronounced trousseau — “is all she’ll get in 
my lifetime.” 

I was rather surprised at the liberality of 
this provision for the wedding - clothes. But 
Uncle Cudberry proceeded to explain, and, as 
it were, to apologize for it. A hundred pounds 
was a large sum, truly — a very large sum. But 
he calculated that his daughters cost him a 
considerable sum per annum, and he was bound 
in fairness to remember that the husbands who 
married them would in future take all that ex- 
pense on their own shoulders. “ It is but the 
one outlay, you see,” said Uncle Cudberry ; 
“and I don’t choose that a Miss Cudberry of 
Woolling should go shabby into any man’s 
house.” 

He was very reticent, as usual, but I gath- 


HO 


AKNE FURNESS. 


ered on the whole from his words and demean- 
or that, as I had anticipated, he would be very 
Avilling to allow Clementina to become Mrs. 
William Ilodgekinson. 

“There’ll be a devil of a bobbery with Miss 
Cudberry!” said he, with a momentary spark 
of expression in his black eye, just before we 
parted. 

I was silent, being puzzled how to reply to 
this unexpected admission ; and, after pausing 
a second or two, he resumed, still more to my 
surprise : 

“And, mind you, I don’t say Miss Cud- 
berry will be altogether wrong. She comes 
first in the family. There’s no doubt about 
that. But, as I said to ’em t’other day, there 
don’t seem to be much chance of finding hus- 
bands for the girls, or a wdfe for Sam. Sam’s 
a lout, it’s true. But Miss Cudberry — Well, 
can’t be helped. It’s high time as I got rid of 
some on ’em.” 

I communicated the result of my interview 
to Clementina, and, although she agreed with 
me that it was good, it threw her into a very 
nervous state, which was not diminished by 
hearing later in the afternoon that her father 
had mounted his horse and ridden over to 
Farmer Ilodgekinson ’s. 

Boor Clemmy’s trepidation exhibited itself 
not in any soft, trembling, subdued gentleness 
of manner which called for encouragement and 
sympathy, but after a characteristic Cudberry 
fashion — she became, that is to say, exceed- 
ingly rigid, bi'usque, and almost snappish. And 
as in her anxiety she clung to me and followed 
me every where, I had not altogether a pleas- 
ant time of it. 

But at length Uncle Cudberry returned. And 
he did not return alone. The suitor had rid- 
den back with him, and wdien from the garden 
we (Clemmy and I) beheld two horses trotting 
along the pathway, instead of one, I squeezed 
Clemmy’s hand, and bade her be of good cheer, 
for it was plain that the course of her true love 
was destined to run smooth. 

I reckoned a little too rashly, however, when 
I talked of smoothness, as will presently appear. 

Clementina ran into the house and up to her 
own room ; perhaps to recover her composure 
in solitude, perhaps to add some touch of 
adornment to her dress. And Mr. Cudberry, 
followed by his young guest, who looked re- 
markably sheepish, walked solemnly into the 
drawing-room. 

It was tenanted only by Aunt Cudberry and 
Henrietta — the former ■writing crooked entries 
in her housekeeping-book, the latter playing 
the piano in a manner which always suggested 
to me that she must be hurting the instrument. 
I entered the room almost at the same instant 
with Mr. Cudberry and his guest. 

“ Mrs. Cudberry,” said my uncle, walking up 
to his wife, “allow me to presliit to you your 
future son-in-law.” 

Aunt Cudberry let her pen fall from her fin- 
gers, and licnny ceased her relentless perform- 


ance with a crash. As to the future son-in- 
law, thus presented, he was in an agony of 
bashfulness, and of a glowing red color even * 
to the tips of his ears. But none of these 
things disconcerted Mr. Cudberiy. 

“I’ve been over to Ilodgekinson’s and set- 
tled it all with him — or, at least, with Mrs. 
Hodgekinson. Her husband wasn’t at home. 
But it’s quite the same. He know's all about 
it,” said Mr. Cudberry, sitting dowm and wip- 
ing his head with his handkerchief. 

“Oh my! La, well now, my dear! and so 
you really mean it, poor thing?” said Aunt 
Cudberry, putting one of her hands on each of 
the young man’s shoulders, and giving him a 
queer little shake as she looked earnestly into 
his face. This proceeding appeared to act on 
William Hodgekinson in the manner of a ho- 
meopathic remedy for bashfulness. Certainly 
it w’ould, under ordinary circumstances, have 
put him frightfully out of countenance, but in 
his present condition it seemed to give him a 
desperate kind of strength. For he jerked 
himself resolutely a'way from the good lady’s 
hold, and answered in quite a loud voice, albeit 
with a purple-blushing visage : 

“Yes, ma’am, I do mean it. I always have 
meant it, and I hope it ’ll meet with your ap- 
probation — and the other young ladies’ appro- 
bation,” he added, after a second’s pause. 

“La, yes, my dear, if Mr. Cudberry is satis- 
fied, and Miss Cudberry, I’m sure I dare say 
it w'ill all do very well. It’s a very serious 
thing being married ; but, of course, you must 
both make up your minds to it, poor things.” 

All this time Henrietta had fixed her intend- 
ed brother-in-law with a watchful and suspi- 
cious stare. Now she rose, and, advancing to 
the door, said : 

“ I’ll call Tilly. She’s in her own room.” 

“Stop a bit!” exclaimed Mr. Cudberry. 
“Just you understand clearly, and make Tilly 
understand clearly, wdio it is as is proposed for. 
Mr. William Hodgekinson has got m^’’ consent 
to marry my daughter Clementina.” 

“ If I didn’t think so !” exclaimed Henrietta, 
clapping her hands together with a noise like 
the report of a pistol. “I do declare I sus- 
pected it all along — there ! ” 

“ No ! Never ! Marry Clementina !” cried 
Aunt Cudberry, quite tremblingly. “Why, 
Samuel, what in the world — why, we all thought 
it was Tilly ! La, there, my dears, whatever 
will Miss Cudberry say when she comes to 
know it ?” 

“Sh-h-h! Tut! What ’ll Miss Cudberry 
say? She’ll offer her best Avishes, I suppose. 
Mr. William Hodgekinson don’t fancy as Miss 
Cudberrys of Woolling are pulling caps for 
him. But your foolish chat, Mrs. Cudberry, 
is enough to turn his head wi’ conceit.” 

So spake Uncle Cudberry, but it was of no 
avail. His wife could not take the hint to 
sustain the dignity of the absent Tilly. She 
continued to assure her husband and the young 
man alternately that they had all thought the 


ANNE EURNESS. 


141 


visits of the latter had had “Miss Cudberry” 
for their chief object, and to evince much agi- 
tation and anxiety as to the result of the news 
upon that injured young lady. 

Young Hodgekinson looked about him with 
a bewildered and almost frightened air. I sin- 
cerely pitied him ; but it Avas impossible not to 
be keenly alive to the intense absurdity of his 
position. 

Mr. Cudberry had apparently abandoned him 
to his fiite, and had retired behind his news- 
paper Avith an air of stolid determination, as 
Avho should say, “Fight it out, good people. 
I’ve done my part of the business.” 

I advanced to Mr. William, and held out my 
hand, and offered my congratulations. 

“Thank you, miss,” said he, giving my fin- 
gers a grip Avhich made them tingle again. 

“I think you Avill haA’e a very good Avife, 
Mr. Hodgekinson. Clemmy is a kind-hearted 
girl, and I hope you Avill be very happy.” 

“Thank you again, miss. I — I — desire to 
give satisfaction to all parties. But, you knoAv, 
it’s impossible to marry three young ladies. 
You must pick and choose. And Clemmy — 
Avell, of course, you knoAv, Avheu you’re at- 
tached to a girl, and all that, you knoAV, why, 
you’re naturally Avishful to be on good terms 
Avith her family. But I do assure you, miss, 
most solemn, that I never had the least idea 
of making up to Miss Cudberry — never in this 
Avorld, Miss Furness! I’d take my oath of 
it to-morroAA", if that Avould make things pleas- 
anter.” 

I assured him that I did not believe that 
Avould make things pleasanter ; and, moreover, 
that I had no doubt any little misunderstand- 
ing Avhich might have arisen Avould speedily be 
cleared aAA’ay. But I had to bite my lips dili- 
gently to repress a smile. 

“Well, I do think it’s too bad for a felloAv 
to be accused of such a thing,” pursued the 
young gentleman, loAvering his voice and speak- 
ing confidentially, as to a sympathizing listen- 
er. “ Miss Cudberry I Why, Lord bless you. 
Miss Furness ! my mother Avould be fit to eat 
me Avithout salt if I’d haA^e thought of such a 
thing as bringing her Miss Cudberry for a 
daughter-in-laAv. Not but Avhat she’s a most 
excellent young lady, I’m sure,” he added, ap- 
parently remembering on a sudden that he Avas 
speaking to a member of the family. “And I 
should think she’d make a most excellent Avife 
for — for almost any body else,” said Mr. Ilodge- 
kinson, Avaving his hand in a vague manner, 
as though generously bestowing Miss Cudberry 
as a matrimonial treasure on some one or other 
of his friends. “I’ve no doubt that there are 
some Avho Avould be quite — quite delighted to 
marry Miss Cudberry. But as for me — Do 
you think she’ll— she’ll bloAv up at all, Miss Fur- 
ness ? I hope you’ll stand by me and Clemmy. ” 

At this moment the three sisters entered the 
room — Jlenny, Avho had gone to summon her 
elder sister, Tilly, and Clemmy — the latter ar- 
riving from her own room. 


There Avas an aAvful pause, during Avhich 
Clementina edged up near to her father, Hen- 
rietta seated herself, Avith a half-pleased, half- 
spiteful expression of countenance, ready to 
throAv in a barbed word or tAvo at need, and 
“Miss Cudberry” stood bolt upright, opposite 
to young Hodgekinson, and fixed him Avith a 
terrible glare from her eyes. 

At length she spoke ; but it was a peculiar 
and unexpected feature in her speech that she 
addressed her parents exclusively, and s])oke 
only William Hodgekinson — never, hoAvever, 
releasing him from the poAver of her eye. 

“ Well, pa and ma, I should be glad to knoAV 
if I have heard rightly, and whether the iieAvs 
about Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son having proposed 
to my youngest sister, Clementina Cudberry, is 
correct.” 

Silence. An uneasy and furtive interchange 
of glances betAveen Clemmy and her lover. Mrs. 
Cudberry moves her mouth and forehead spas- 
modically. Mr. Cudberry remains immovable 
behind his neAvspaper. 

“I have alAvays supposed, ma, that Miss 
Cudberry — Miss Cudberry — Avas somewhat of 
a feature in her OAvn family. You knoAV very 
Avell, pa, that that has been our rule. Miss 
Cudberry first and foremost. But noAV it aji- 
pears, pa and ma, that she can’t get an ansAver 
to a simple question.” 

“Put your question plain, my lass. Has 
William Hodgekinson proposed for Clemmy ? 
Yes; he has. There — settled,” said Mr. 
Cudberry, dryly. 

“Thank you, pa. But it is not quite set- 
tled. I say nothing about unsuitability of birth, 
because this is a leveling age ; and, as I have 
often told you, pa and ma, Ave must move Avith 
the times. And as to comparing a Hodgekin- 
son Avith a Cudberrry of Woolling, that, of 
course, is out of the question. But I have one 
or tAvo ohserA'ations to make, pa and ma, re- 
specting Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son on other 
grounds. Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son has been 
received in this family on false pretenses. That 
is to say, he made the false pretenses. He 
came to Woolling very frequently; and Avhat 
AA'as his object in coming Avould any body in 
their senses have supposed ? Why, Miss Cud- 
berry ! To Avhom did Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son 
pay marked attention? To Miss Cudberry! 
With Avhom did Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son Avalk 
and talk chiefly? With Miss Cudberry!” 

Here William Hodgekinson muttered, audi- 
bly, “Because you made me;” and I perceived 
a gloomy defiance gathering on his broAv. 

“Let Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son understand 
me, pa. Don’t let him run aAvay Avith absurd 
and unfounded notions, ma ! I simply regard- 
ed him Avith pity, for an alliance hetAveen Miss 
Cudberry of Woolling and Mrs. Hodgekinson’s 
son could never have been contemplated for an 
instant — ” 

“Certainly not!” put in the young man, 
more emphatically than politely. 

“Z>y the former!" pursued Tilly, ignoring the 


142 


ANNE FURNESS. 


interruption. “There is a fitness in things, 
and that Avhich might suit Clementina’s views 
would, of course, not do for her eldest sister.” 

“La, there, my dear, I’m very glad you take 
it so well!” exclaimed Mrs. Cudberry, with cu- 
rious infelicity. 

“ But what I would have you consider, pa, is, 
w'hether you are justified in bestowing any one 
of your daughters — even Clemmy, poor thing ! 
— on Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son. Low birth, an un- 
prepossessing exterior, a total absence of style, 
a mother-in-law of overbearing temper and pre- 
sumptuous manners, may be got over,” said Til- 
ly, with extraordinary glibness, as though she 
were repeating a lesson learned by heart, and 
in a voice of ever-increasing shrillness. “But 
sneaking duplicity and false pretenses — delib- 
erate deception offered to Miss Cudberry of 
Woolling in her own home — I should think 
these formed an insuperable barrier between 
Clementina and Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son.” 

“Oh, Tilly, don’t say that!” said Clementi- 
na, half crying. 

Young Hodgekinson, apparently impelled by 
his lady-love’s distress to make a stand, began 
to reply to Tilly’s tirade. It was curious to me 
to see how, wdien made thoroughly indignant, 
the timid, awkAvard young man, who had been 
kept overlong in the maternal leading-strings, 
displayed a rough, rustic, brute force ; and how 
feeble Tilly’s feminine shrewishness showed be- 
side him. 

“ Come, Miss Tilly,” said he, “ I think that’s 
about enough. You never meant to have me, 
and. Lord know’s, I never meant to have you ; 
so w-e’re both of one mind. And as your fa- 
ther’s content, and Clemmy’s content, I can do 
without your approbation. Come, Clementi- 
na, we’ll go and have a bit of a walk together. 
Get your hat on. I rode over to have a talk 
wuth you, and I don’t mean to go back with- 
out it.” 

At this bold assumption of authority over 
Clemmy the wdiole family remained in dumb 
consternation. Even Henny forgot to say any 
thing sharp on the occasion. Clemmy, after a 
timid look at her father, who nodded encour- 
agingly, followed her betrothed out of the draw- 
ing-room, and we presently saw them stroll arm 
in arm past the window. 

“ Well !” exclaimed Tilly, recovering herself 
after a short pause, “that’s a specimen of the 
treatment she has to expect. Poor Clemmy! 
Between Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son and Mrs. 
Hodgekinson herself, she will be trampled in 
the mire completely. I compassionate her, but 
I wash my hands of the Avhole business, and 
must decline to interfere further.” 

And this Avas the position Avhich Miss Cud- 
berry maintained during the Avhole of her sis- 
ter’s courtship. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

The old room with the sloping floor Avas A’ery * 
much tenanted by me during the folloAving two 
or three daA’s. There Avere bickerings among 
the girls on the subject of Clementina’s engage- 
ment Avhich Avere very disagreeable to Avitness. 
As a member of the family, they did not think 
it Avorth while to put on an appearance of union 
and good-Avill before me, and I took refuge in 
my chamber as often as I could. 

One evening at sunset I AA^andered out alone 
into the lane behind Woolling. It was very 
unfrequented, as it led merely to the cottage of 
one of Mr. Cudberry’s tenants. The hedge- 
rows Avere noAv in full leaf, the lane AA'as grass- 
groAvn, and a couple of sheep Avith their lambs 
were grazing there. 

I had left the family party at Woolling sol- 
emnly assembled in the drawing-room enter- 
taining Mrs. Hodgekinson, Avho had come to 
take tea there, and to ratify, as it Avere, the 
young people’s engagement by her presence. 
There had been sundry passages of arms al- 
ready between that severe matron and Tilly 
Cudberry. Tilly had assumed a light and airy 
superiority of demeanor. She AA'as gay, hilari- 
ous, tolerant, condescending. She gently pit- 
ied her sister, and smiled, more in compassion 
than scorn, at William Hodgekinson’s Avooing. 
Mrs. Hodgekinson’s Avatchful eye AA’as stern, and 
her mouth never once relaxed in its implacable 
tightness. Tilly might as Avell have tried to 
put the big iron knocker on Sir Peter Bunny’s 
hall door out of countenance by her flne airs 
and contemptuous badinage as Mrs. Hodge- 
kinson. But the good lady perfectly compre- 
hended that Miss Cudberry Avas endeaA’oring to 
assume a superiority OA’er herself and her son, 
and to convey by her manner that she consid- 
ered Clementina (in so far as she was a Cud- 
berry of Woolling) to be a pearl cast to unde- 
serving and unappreciating brutes, for AA’hora 
acorns AA’ould be more than good enough. 

And the result of this perception on the part 
of Mrs. Hodgekinson AA’as to cause, in polite 
phrase, very considerable tension in the inter- 
course of the Avhole assembled company. 

It Avas soothing to Avalk forth into the sweet, 
still air and the slanting, yelloAV sunshine. I 
Avent on to the point Avhere the little grassy 
lane opened into another road — itself scarcely 
more than a lane — that led to the higliAvay from 
Brookfield. By faint degrees the clattering of 
a horse’s hoofs greAv distinct out of the distance. 

A horseman came sloAvly along the road, and 
dreAv rein at the point Avhere my grass-grown 
lane intersected it, turning in his saddle to look 
at me as I stood in the long evening shadow 
cast by a group of trees. The horseman Avas 
Donald. 

I don’t pretend to account for the positive 
certainty that it Avas he Avhich possessed me 
from the first moment that I heard th^ sound 
of his horse’s hoofs; but I record the fact that 
I had that positive certainty. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


143 


lie threw himself out of the saddle and came 
toward me, leading his horse by the bridle. 

“ Oh, Anne ! I am very fortunate in finding 
you thus,” he said, very eagerly. But he bowed 
with undue politeness, and barely touched the 
liand I offered him. 

“What made you come this way? I did 
r.ot know you were acquainted with it.” 

“Not at all acquainted with it, for I nearly 
lost myself. I had been at Diggleton’s End, 
and was told that I could reach Woolling by 
this route. But it is a labyrinth of lanes. 
However, fortune favored me, for here you are.” 

“ Did you want to see we.?” I asked, and the 
next moment I felt my face burn at the stupid 
naivete which had communicated a tone of ex- 
treme surprise to my voice, for I thought it 
might be mistaken for affectation. 

“Yes; I wish to say a few words to you if 
you will allow me. Can you remain here? I 
will not detain you long.” 

I bowed my head in silence, and we began 
to pace slowly along side by side. Donald 
had let go the bridle, and his horse put down 
his nose to nibble at the fresh, soft grass. 

“ He follows me like a dog when I call him,” 
said Donald. “He won’t stray.” 

There was a little pause. I heard the horse’s 
teeth cut the herbage, and the twittering of 
birds preparing for sleep in the foliage. 

“ I was more grieved than I can say, 
Anne,” said Donald, “when I accidentally dis- 
covered that it was my presence which had 
driven you from Mortlands. I had accepted 
the statement that you needed change of air 
as being a natural and simple explanation of 
your going. I had — to make a clean breast 
of it — I had perceived that my presence in your 
grandfather’s house was not pleasing to you. 
But I little thought it was so utterly intolerable 
that you were driven away by it altogether.” 

I could not utter the protest that made my 
heart swell. I was dumb; and suppressed 
tears seemed to suffocate me. 

He went on, after waiting an instant, as 
though expecting me to speak : 

“Perhaps I ought not to have come to Mort- 
lands so long as you were an inmate of it. If 
I had consulted only my own peace of mind I 
should not have done so. However, it is use- 
less to enter into all that. I came. Only this 
morning, in a long conversation with Dr. Hew- 
son, I learned the real cause of your running 
away from Mortlands. And I lost as little 
time as possible in coming to beg you to return, 
and to tell you that I leave your grandfather’s 
house to-night.” 

I struggled to speak ; but still the rising 
tears almost choked me. Words and thoughts 
came thronging into my mind, but my tongue 
weakly refused t-o utter them. 

He did not see ; he could not understand. 

“I fear that even my coming now is dis- 
pleasing to you,” he said. “You don’t deign 
to say a word to me, Anne. Well — I meant 
for the best. Forgive me if I have been wrong. 


It was an error of judgment, and no willful dis- 
regard of your wishes, that brought me here. 
And believe me, Anne, that however you may 
treat' me, I am able to do justice to all that is 
good in you. I have seen your unselfish de- 
votion to your mother, your patient endurance 
of misfortune, your courage, and your good 
sense. I have heard your grandfather bless 
you with tears in his eyes. It is not for me 
to keep you away from those to whom you are 
so dear and so useful. Won’t you say ‘Good- 
by?’ ” 

Then I broke down and burst into tears. I 
sobbed so violently, although not noisi^'^, that 
Donald was startled out of the sad, cold man- 
ner — a manner full of half-frozen kindness — 
which he had hitherto displayed during this 
interview. 

“Anne! Anne! For Heaven’s sake don’t 
cry so! What is the matter? What have I 
done ? Won't you say one word to me, Anne ?” 

I made a sign with my hand that he should 
wait and give me time. He did so, but in great 
distress and impatience, twisting his riding- 
whip like a thread in his fingers, and with a 
face of extreme anxiety. 

At length I found voice to speak. 

“You say that you learned from my grand- 
father this morning the real cause of my leav- 
ing Mortlands. You have TzoMearned it. It 
seems — incredible as ;j^appears to my mind, I 
must believe you ; I can not doubt your word — 
it seems that you have not even guessed the 
real cause of my going away. Surely my 
grandfather did not tell you that I left Mort- 
lands because your presence was hateful to 
me? And yet that is the cause you choose 
to assign.” 

“ No ; he did not say so in plain words, but 
I clearly gathered that it was so from what he 
let fall.” 

“And jmu can not imagine any other feel- 
ing — any other reason which should make it 
very painful to me to continue living as we 
were living at Mortlands ?” 

“ You speak with a bitter tone, Anne. There 
may have been — no doubt there w'as — pain to 
you in many reminiscences conjured up by my 
presence ; but, pardon me, if I say that if I 
could endure to see and speak with you daily, 
it seemed natural to suppose that you might 
endure it also.” 

“Oh!” I cried, wringing my hands, “it is 
useless ; you can not or will not understand. 
But — I will speak. It is not just and right 
dumbly to endure unmerited contempt. Yes, 
contempt. That, and nothing less, was what 
your manner expressed for me. I will tell you, 
Donald, the reason why I could not bear to 
stay under the same roof with you. It was be- 
cause you met me day after day with a stern 
face, with an icy bow, with some formal, con- 
ventional word of greeting. You were like 
your old self to every one but me. To me you 
were cruel in your coldness. If I gave you 
pain once, was it manly, or generous, or even 


144 


ANNE FURNESS. 


just, to punish me for it so inexorably? I, 
too, have suffered, Donald. The pain I caused 
you was caused by no wrong-doing on my part. 
I never ceased to feel toward you as affection- 
ately as when we were children together. Of 
course if I cared nothing — if the memory of the 
old days were as completely indifferent to me 
as it seems to be to you — you would have no 
power to make me suffer. I should meet dis- 
dain "with disdain. But I will not fear to be 
sincere, and to tell you the truth. You have 
treated me hardly, Donald, and I have never 
merited such treatment at your hands.” 

His face changed as I spoke from anxiety to 
surprise, and from surprise to an expression I 
could not interpret; but it seemed to have a 
ray of joy in it. When I ceased to speak I 
turned to go away. It seemed to me that I 
could .not bear to remain in his presence an- 
other moment. But he caught my hand and 
held it, crying, “Stay, Anne, one moment.” 

“ Why ? What is there to be said that it 
will be good to say ? I had better go.” 

“There are many things to be said. One 
thing is — forgive me! Oh, Anne, I never 
thought of hurting you, or being^cruel. I little 
dreamed that you cared for any thing I could 
say or do. I was miserable, and — jealous.” 

“Jealous!” 

“You know I can be very jealous of affec- 
tion. Partly it is because I do not expect to 
be greatly loved. I know my own shortcom- 
ings. I have never been winning or popular. 
So much the more precious to me is love and 
kindness, so much the more wretched does the 
loss of them make me !” 

I looked at him in bewilderment. “I do 
not understand you,” I said. “Of what or of 
whom were you jealous ? Of Mrs. Abram ? of 
little Jane? There was no one else to claim 
my regard except my own dear ones.” 

“Do not mock at me, Anne. Don’t cuiwe 
that scornful lip! It is very serious to me; 
more serious than any thing else on earth. No ; 
I was not jealous of Mrs. Abram or the child. 
I was jealous of the absent — of the love you 
had given that I could not win ; and all the 
more heart-sore because I believed that love to 
be unworthily bestowed.” 

I felt the hot blood rush up into my face ; 
but I would speak no word to him on that 
score. There was a feeling within me which 
rendered it impossible for me to say, “You 
are mistaken ; I bestowed no love unworthily. 
I do not love that absent person ; ho never had 
my heart.” I could have died rather than say 
this to Donald. 

“This morning,” he went on, “Dr. Hewson 
told me that there was no engagement to bind 
you to that man. I was thankful to hear it, 
God knows, for your sake.” 

“Why did my grandfather volunteer such a 
confidence ?” I said, coldly ; “ it was surely un- 
called for.” My heart was beating very fast, 
and the blood had left my face. 

“How terribly proud you are, Anne!” said 


Donald, looking at me wistfully. “ Be at rest ; 
Dr. Hewson did not volunteer it. He told me 
the truth in answer to my question.” 

I was silent; and he also stood for some 
minutes without speaking. 

“You do not love that man now, Anne?” 
said Donald at length, in a low, hesitating voice. 

“ I shall say no more to you ; you have no 
right to question me. You had a right, as my 
playmate and beloved friend and almost broth- 
er; but now — you have chosen to put a barrier 
between us. I can not be set down and taken 
up at your caprice, Donald ; and it is not an 
evil pride that makes me say so ; indeed it is 
not. I can. not talk to you in the old trustful 
way while I know that the old trustful feeling 
is dead between us. It would be too hollow 
and false and painful.” 

“Anne, don’t you know I love you with 
all my heart and soul?” 

I leaned my arms upon a gate that led into 
the Woolling meadows to steady myself. I felt 
the ground waving beneath my feet. I could 
only gasp out his name, “Donald!” My face 
must have changed greatly, for he put out his 
arm to support me, as though fearing I should 
fall ; but I held by the gate with one hand and 
waved him off with the other. 

“Don’t you know that I have never ceased 
to love you? — that all my cold reserve and 
seeming ill-humor was to hide my heart, or 
rather to defend it? But I kneiu in my con- 
science that that was hopeless. I tried to de- 
ceive myself. I told myself that I was coming 
to Mortlands merely because it was my duty to 
my father’s dear old friend to come ; but all the 
while I was trembling with the hope of seeing 
you. The rustle of your gown as you moved 
across the room, the sound of your voice, the 
touch of your hand, made my heart leap in my 
breast. And you seemed so placid, so sweet. 
You gave me your hand, and smHed on me 
with your pale face as though all the past had 
been but a dream — as though — Oh, I can not 
express it, Anne ! but I suffered tortures of 
jealousy and longing, and self-reproach and 
doubt. And then when this morning your 
grandfather said there was no engagement be- 
tween you and that man ; that, so far as he 
knew, there never had been any ; and when I 
learned, or thought I learned, that you had left 
Mortlands to avoid me — I resolved to see you, 
making the excuse to myself that I bad no 
right to keep you away from your home among 
uncongenial people, but with an insane kind of 
hope urging me on. Anne, if you will tell me 
that you never loved Gervase Lacer, tell it me 
with your own lips, and look at me Avith your 
true eyes, I will believe you against any thing 
to the contrary — against the evidence of my 
senses. You asked me Avhat right I had to 
question you. I have told you — the right a 
man has who loves and honors a Avoman aboA’o 
all the Avorld. Don’t be obdurate, Anne ; I will 
trust you from my soul.” 

There Avas a momentary struggle Avithin me 


ANNE FURNESS. 


145 


— such a struggle as I have undergone when a 
child — between the sincere impulse of my heart 
and a sort of leaden immobility — a kind of dumb 
demon Avhich seemed to seal my lips and chain 
my limbs. But I shook it otf, and stretching 
out my arms to Donald, fell upon his breast, 
and cried there as a little child paight cry who 
has been lost and nearly frozen in the bleak 
world, and thaws into delicious tears at the soft 
warmth of home. 

“I never loved him, Donald. I was foolish, 
and perhaps Avrong in some points. But for 
loving — I never loved but you, and I have loved 
you always.” 



CHAPTER XLIX. 


IMy aunt and cousins were a good deal 
surprised at my announcement, when I re- 
turned to the house, that I must go back to 
IVIortlands the next day. Why must I go? 
What Avas the matter? Hoav flushed my face 
AA’as! Hoav my eyes glittered! Aunt Cud- 
berry hoped I Avas not sickening for typhus fe- 
ver, or small-pox, or any other terrible disease. 
But she didn’t like the look of me at all, poor 
thing! 

I assured her that I felt quite Avell. But I 
persisted in my intention of returning to Mort- 
lands, giving as a reason that I Avished to see 
my mother and grandfather, and speak to them 
on a matter of importance to me. 

“Is that young man at your grandfather’s 
still, my dear ?” asked Aunt Cudberry. 

I Avas startled by the singular patness of the 
question. But it proved to be but a random 
shot on the dear old lady’s part ; for she pro- 
ceeded, AA'hen I had answered her in the affirm- 
ative : “Ah, AA'ell, that’s a bad job, my dear — 
now, isn’t it ? For if you should have a fever 
or any thing, it’s a great trial to have a man 
in the house. They creak so, don’t they, my 
dear ? I mean their boots, poor things !” 

Mrs. Hodgekinson here came to my rescue, 
declaring grimly that she thought I looked Avell 
enough. She could see nothing the matter 
Avith me. In fact, I had a little more life and 
color in my face than usual. She supposed it 
Avas the country fare. There Avas a deal in 
feeding — more than people thought. 

I could not but remember Mrs. Hodgekin- 
son’s dictum on the night of the ball, that it 
AA'as best for every body “to stay in their OAvn 
houses, and eat Avhat they’d got. ” However, 
this stern dame Avas gracious to me after her 
fashion. And I suppose I OAved this gracious- 
ness to her son William’s good report of me. 

Mr. Cudberry took me aside the next morn- 
ing to ask me if I had been A^exed or offended in 
any Avay, that I had made up my mind to leave 
Woolling so suddenly. “ I Avon’t haA'e it, mind 
you, Anne, ” said he, sloAvly and doggedly. “ If 
any thing has gone cross Avith you I’ll put it 
straight, if you Avill but say the Avord. Miss 
Cudberry has been ruffled a good deal by all 
K 


this business of Clemmy’s, and maybe she’s 
making herself onpleasant to you to ease her 
mind. Because, you see, Avomen are like that, 
Avhen they’re put out. You kick them, and 
they’ll kick the cat. But I’m master, and I 
mean to haA’e my Avay. And if you give me 
the AA'ord, I’ll take care you sha’n’t be bothered 
underneath my roof.” 

I assured him that I Avas neither vexed nor 
offended, nor badly treated in any Avay ; that I 
thanked him and all his family for their hospi- 
tality, and that I had spent a peaceful week at 
Woolling, Avhich I should be glad to remember. 

“ Well, now I have a good stare at you,” said 
Mr. Cudberry, suiting the action to the word, 
“I do say as you’re looking a sight better than 
you did Avhen you came. Why, it’s quite re- 
markable ! There’s a difference from one day 
to another. Hang me if you Avas looking so 
bright and so bonny four-and-tAventy hours ago ! 
Well, I alAvays knew Woolling air was the finest 
in England. Look at me ! I haA'en’t slept out 
of it one night for forty years ; and though I’m 
not exactly ‘bright and bonny,’ to be sure, yet 
I’m as tough as a bit of yeAv.” 

“Anne Furness!” said Tilly, A^ery solemnly 
to me, just as I Avas about to step into the so- 
ciable, “I have a request to make of you.” 

“ What can I do for you, Tilly ?” 

“ Will you invite me to spend a day or tAA'o 
at Mortlands early next Aveek ?” 

“ Oh ! — I — I’m sure grandfather Avill be very 
glad to see you. I Avill speak to him. You 
knoAv I can not invite people to his house Avith- 
out his leave. But I am afraid you Avill find 
Mortlands but a dull place.” 

“No matter for that, Anne. Of course I 
can not expect to find a Woolling every Avhere. 
I shall visit one or tAvo families of distinction in 
Horsingham, and shall be glad of the change.” 

It Avas not a very pleasant prospect to me to 
have Tilly Cudberry depending on me for com- 
panionship and entertainment during some days. 
But it could not damp my spirits. A more se- 
rious trouble Avould scarcely have done so. As 
I droA*e along the leafy lanes my heart was 
light, and my eyes damp Avith delicious tears. 
He loved me ! Donald loved me ! At times 
I trembled to think how nearly I had lost him ! 
— hoAV near Ave had been to parting forever, and 
Avhat a seeming chance had cleared aAvay our 
mutual misunderstanding ! Then I recalled all 
his Avords, his looks, the tones of his voice ; the 
grave, outlooking candor in his eyes, such as 
Ave see sometimes in the self-unconscious eyes 
of a little child ; the ringing, eager sound of 
his voice, AA-hich had never lost its boyish frank- 
ness ; the strong, simple earnestness of manner 
(not always appreciated by slight, poor natures), 
Avhich arose from his habitually giving others 
credit for being as absolutely sincere as him- 
self. And Avithal — let the reader believe me 
or not — I saAV his faults ! I saAV them, I be- 
lieve, more clearly than I had ever seen them 
before. They Avere faults a Avoman Avho loved 
him might be Sony for, but never ashamed of. 


146 


ANNE FURNESS. 


He was oversensitive to any breath of coldness, 
lie would meet no kindly advance half-way, al- 
though no one could more genuinely prize kind- 
ness. His humble judgment of himself was ex- 
treme enough to border on the other extreme 
of inflexible pride — as extremes will be apt to 
border on each other. He was trenchantly 
severe in his judgments, though never in his 
deeds. He could take few things lightly, and in 
some matters was as impetuously impatient as a 
school-boy. My affection cast no glamour over 
my judgment, I sincerely think. I thought him 
no miracle of perfection, no pattern of manly 
beauty. But I knew him then, as I know him 
now, to be a noble, generous, steadfast human 
being, whose love made me worthier in my own 
eyes, and whom I could love and honor with an 
entire and perfect trust. 

He was waiting for me at the beginning of 
the long, elm-bordered meadow we called the 
Park. I stopped the sociable, and told Daniel 
he need come no further ; I would walk the 
rest of the way to Mortlands, the day was so 
fine. And there was Mr. Ayrlie ; I could go 
home under his escort. 

“And what ’ll I do wi’ the box, then ?” asked 
Daniel, looking at me as stolidly as if he w’ould 
not have been surprised at an order to set my 
little black trunk down by the road-side — as 
])crhaps, indeed, he would not. 

“ Not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, 
were more 

Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a 
garden of spice,” 

sings Mr. Tennyson — or, rather, the hero of 
Mr. Tennyson’s “Maud.” Now I do believe 
that Daniel admired absolutely nothing, and 
desired very few things. 

“ Oh, dear me !” said I, clasping my hands, 
and coloring hotly, “T forgot all about the 
trunk.” I felt terribly ashamed. Such €lour- 
derie was not frequent with me, and I thought 
that Daniel must observe it, and make sly men- 
tal comments on it. But it was conscience that 
made a coward of me. If Daniel had any latent 
faculty of wonder in him, it was not to be evoked 
by such trifles as a young lady’s forgetfulness. 

“Ah,” said he, nodding his rudd}’’ locks, 
“ there’s where it is. And if it hadn’t ha’ been 
for me you’d ha’ gone on forgetting it.” 

“Couldn’t you drive on to Mortlands, and 
leave the trunk with the servants there, and say 
iliat I am coming on foot, Daniel ?” 

“Yes, ’’said Daniel,^“I couldd’ 

“And will you, if you please? Be good 
enough to tell Keturah that I am walking, and 
shall be there soon after you, by the way through 
the Park.” 

“Yes, I will,” said Daniel, after a little 
pause, as though he had been considering 
whether or no he should so far oblige me as to 
do what I told him. 

“ Take care of Miss Furness’s property,” said 
Donald, slipping a silver coin into Daniel’s 
hand, “ and get yourself a glass of beer in Hors- 
ingham.” 


“ Yes, I will,” ansAvered Daniel, in precisely 
the same meditative tone as before ; but he 
touched his hat and grinned, by way of thanks,, 
before driving off. 

Donald told me, as we walked arm in arm 
along the meadow pathway — how dear it was to 
me to lean on that strong arm, and to feel that I 
might safely rely on its protection for evermore ! 
— that he had spoken to my grandfather last 
evening on returning to Mortlands, and that he 
had been most kind and cordial and affectionate. 

“ He was glad for my sake, I know, Donald,” 
said I. 

“ He Avas glad, darling — and Avith reason — 
for mine.” 

“ Well, Ave Avill let that rest for the present ; 

I shall keep my OAvn opinion, of course, by right 
of the privilege of my sex, let you say Avhat you 
Avill. But tell me Avhat you and grandfather 
said to each otlior.” 

“ Wliat ! all that aax said ? That would be 
a long business. We sat talking in his study 
until past midnight.” 

“ No. Don’t be foolish. Not every Avord, of 
course. But — AAdiat did he say about mother ?” 

“He said he thought our neAvs aa^ouM make 
her happy, and that you had best break it to 
her yourself.” 

“Yes; that is Avhat I Avish. Dear mother! 
She Avas ahvays \’ery fond of you, Donald.” 

Then our talk wandered into reminiscences 
Avhich Avere very SAveet to us, but Avhich Avould 
be only tedious to the reader. We spoke, too, 
of the future, as well as the past. Donald in- 
tended, if I approved the 23lan, to establish him- 
self permanently as a physician in Horsingham. 
He had competence — almost AA^ealth — secured 
to him, by his father’s Avill, but he did not like 
the idea .of leading an idle life. He thought he 
might have the means of doing some good to 
his fellow-creatures by the practice of his pro- 
fession. And (Unless I had any desire to leaA'e 
that part of the country, he thought it Avould 
be Avell to stay in Horsingham, Avhere our pres- 
ence Avould cheer and comfort his dear old 
friend’s declining days. 

We talked. and planned, and built castles in 
the air, and Avalked on as if through a delight- 
ful dream-AA’orld. 

Before vAve reached Mortlands I paused and 
said : 

Dear Donald, there is one thing I wish to 
say to you. I Avas struck by your Avords last 
evening, when you declared that you Avould be- 
lieve me if I told you I had never loved that 
misguided man — you Avould believe me, you 
said, even against the evidence of your senses. 
What did that mean, dear ? I did not under- 
stand it.” 

He looked at me very gravely, and Avith the 
expression of one pondering on a perjfiexing 
theme ; but there Avas no mistrust of me in his 
eyes. 

“ Dearest,” he said at length, “I Avill tell 
you Avhat it meant. I will have no secrets from 
you, my OAvn one. But do not let us speak of 


ANNE FURNESS. 


147 


it to-day. Let a week go by, and then, if you 
will, ask me for an explanation. I shall also 
have some explanations to ask from you. But 
let them rest for the present. Let me prove to 
you how entire and unshakable is my confidence 
in you, my own dear wife I See, we are close 
at home !” 


CHAPTER L. 

We were very happy that evening at Mort- 
lands. Our hearts were full of peace and hope. 
Mother’s eyes beamed tenderly whenever they 
lighted on Donald or on me. There were no 
tears in them. I had not seen her shed tears 
for many months. But there were still depths 
of unfathomable sorrow lying beneath the sur- 
face of those soft brown eyes — a sorrow too 
deep and settled for tears. All her passionate 
outbursts of grief had long since ceased ; but 
grief had made itself a familiar home in her 
heart, and abode there silently. Still the news 
of my engagement to Donald had been very 
sweet and welcome to my dear mother. She 
kissed and blessed us both with tranquil affec- 
tion. 

“You know I always loved you, Donald,” 
said she, passing her thin hand over his fore- 
head. “I am as proud of you as if you were 
my own boy, and may be allowed to confess it. 
No one will accuse a mother-in-law of being 
unduly vain of and indulgent to her daughter’s 
husband. So you will probably be dreadfully 
spoiled.” 

“ Don’t be afraid, dear Mrs. Furness. Being 
made much of is the best thing in the world 
for my constitution ; it brings out all my good 
points, and none of my bad ones. The fonder 
folks are of me, the better I grow !” replied 
Donald, looking across at me with a grave 
countenance, which made grandfather laugh 
heartily. 

Grandfather was the most outwardly joyous 
of us all, and quite astonished Mrs. Abram by 
his sallies of gayety. Poor Mrs. Abram offered 
us her congratulations with sincere affection, 
although in her own peculiar and low-spirited 
manner. It was some time before she appeared 
to be able thoroughly to seize upon and realize 
the idea of the new relations between Donald 
and myself. When at last she did so, she 
beckoned me aside, and asked me with an anx- 
ious face if she might venture to make one in- 
quiry. 

“ Dear Mrs. Abram,” said I, kissing her, “ of 
course you may !” 

“Well, then, my dear Anne, I should wish 
to know whether Donald — whether Mr. Ayr — ” 

“ Mrs. Abram ! you are not going to change 
Donald’s old appellation at this special time ? 
Of course you call him ‘ Donald !’ ” 

“ Well, then, my dear child, I am very anx- 
ious to know whether Donald means to take 
you away from your grandfather ? I mean — 
of course in one sense he takes you away — but 


I mean away from Horsingham ? Because, al- 
though no one can be more aware of my men- 
tal deficiencies than I am myself, I am sure of 
one thing — it would nearly kill Dr. Hewson to 
lose you, Anne ! I know him so well. It is 
very strange that I should, for of course I don’t 
disguise from myself that my intellect is on 
most points very weak — painfully so at times. 
But whether it is my love and gratitude for 
your grandfather that makes me clear-sighted 
about him, or whether it is that I am specially 
permitted to overcome his confusions and temp- 
tations on this one point, I am quite certain 
that to part from you now would shorten your 
grandfather’s days. And I hope — I do hope — 
that Donald and you will continue to remain 
with him, or to let him remain with you. That’s 
all, Anne. I ask your pardon if I have said 
more than I ought. But it was, as it were, 
borne in upon me to say it,” added the faithful 
creature, wiping her eyes and looking at me 
wistfully. 

I reassured her, and calmed her aflfectionate 
solicitude, and presently she was quite at peace 
again, and neai-er to wearing a cheerful aspect 
than I had ever seen her. 

We had resolved to keep our engagement 
secret for the present. Our marriage was not 
to take place until the spring. Mother had 
signified that she wdshed one year of mourning 
to expire fully before there should be any wdiite 
garments or wedding-feast at Mortlands ; and 
in March nearly eighteen months would have 
elapsed since she had donned that widow’s cap 
which she never more put off save on the one 
day of my wedding. In March, then, it w'as 
settled, wdth my mother’s full approval, that I 
should become Donald’s wife. 

Meanwhile we did not wish our engagement 
to be publicly spoken of. The secrecy in which 
w^e desired it to remain for the present did not, 
of course, extend to the household at Mortlands. 
We could trust to the discretion of all its in- 
mates. And Keturah took care triumphantly 
to remind her master that it was a family of 
“ womenfolk'" whom he thus implicitly credited 
with a power of holding their tongues ! 

Keturah ’s pride and delight in our new's was 
boundless. I laughingly told Donald in her 
presence that I was sure Keturah did not con- 
sider me half good enough for him. “ You al- 
ways spoiled Mr. Donald, Keturah ; you know 
you did !” 

“Nay,” said the old woman, looking at us 
both with her keen, sparkling black eyes, “ I 
don’t know as I spoiled him. Miss Anne ; and 
if I did, it don’t follow nohow as I don’t reckon 
you good enough for him. If he was my 
own son, I shouldn’t say as a vartuous young 
lady like you wasn’t good enough for him. A 
woman trusts a deal and risks a deal when 
she gives herself up to her husband, and a 
man as is a man feels that well enough. Nay, 
nay, Mr. Donald don’t want me to preach to 
him as he’s getting a treasure. He believes 
firm enough as your price is far above rubies ; 


148 


ANNE FURNESS. 


and, what’s more, he’ll believe it firmer still this 
day ten vears — which is saying a deal for you 
both.” 

What joy it was to wander with Donald 
through the dear old garden, and recall our 
childish plays there, to discuss our plans for the 
future together, and to feel that I had a right 
to share his hopes and his cares and his 
thoughts for evermore ! There was only one 
topic he never touched on in speaking to me 
during that evening and the following day — 
the topic, namely, of Gervase Lacer. And I 
waited, unwilling to be the first to break this 
reserve, but fully minded not to shrink from 
speaking freely and frankly whensoever it should 
please Donald to require me to do so. I also 
respected his request not to press him with 
questions as to the meaning of those w’ords he 
had said to me about believing in me and trust- 
ing me, “even against the evidence of his 
senses.” But I own that my thoughts often 
recurred to them with curiosity. 

When we were all assembled at dinner on 
the day after my return to Mortlands I sudden- 
ly remembered Tilly Cudberry’s parting w'ords 
to me, and, with much contrition for my negli- 
gence, repeated them to grandfather. 

“ I have been thinking so much of other 
things,” said I, “that the whole matter went 
out of my thoughts. Pray excuse my forget- 
fulness, dear grandfather.” 

“It is rather for Miss Cudberry to excuse 
it,” returned grandfather. “ And I don’t know 
whether she is different from all other young 
ladies ; but I think most girls would not be im- 
placable toward you, under the circumstances, 
little Nancy.” 

“ Well,” said my mother, “I am inclined to 
think that Tilly Cudberry is different from all 
other young ladies. I have never met with 
one quite like her.” 

“ But w'hat is to be done about this — this in- 
vitation ? What does she want to come here 
at all for ?” 

“I think she is not contented just now at 
home, and wishes for a change.” 

“Well, I — suppose," said grandfather, look- 
ing round upon us all slowly, “ that I must ask 
her. Eh ?” 

“ I’m almost afraid, dear grandfather, that, 
if she hears nothing to the contrary, she is ca- 
pable of coming without being asked.” 

“ The deuce she is !” 

“ But, of coui’se, you can, if you like, send a 
note to Woolling saying that it is not conven- 
ient to you to receive her just now.” 

“ No, no ! Let her come. Her father has 
shown some glimmering appreciation of my 
little Nancy. And she is of poor George’s 
kith and kin, after all. We mustn’t forget 
that,” said grandfather, in a lower voice, with 
a glance of ineffable tenderness at my mother. 
“ And we are all very happy here, and our 
happiness ought to make ns tolerant and kind 
to other people, so — Why, Judith ! what’s 
amiss ?” 


At the first mention of Tilly Cudberry’s 
name poor Mrs. Abram’s jaw had dropped, her 
knife and fork had ceased to ply, and she re-> 
mained gazing straight before her in a sort of 
trance. 

“ Oh, I ask your pardon. Dr. Ilewson,” she 
said, humbly, and in her most muffled tones, 
“ but I — I — was thinking of that young lady.” 

“ What were you thinking of her ? I didn’t 
know that you had ever seen her.” 

“ Yes, Dr. Hewson. She and her father, 
and her mother, and her two sisters, came here 
to see Anne while you and Lucy w'ere away. 

I shouldn’t have intruded, but Anne made me 
stay in the room.” 

“To be sure ! Well, did Miss Cudberry 
make herself agreeable ?” 

“ N — not very, I think. Dr. Ilewson. But I 
am no judge of agreeableness, being, no doubt, 
far from agreeable to strangers myself. She 
had — a good deal to say, Dr. Ilewson. But, 
to say the truth, I didn’t very well understand 
her. And — and it did seem to me at times 
that there was something a little wild about 
her.” 

“ A little wild, eh ?” repeated grandfather, 
glancing at me in some bewilderment. “ Well, 
Judith, if she does not please you, you’ve no- 
thing to do but keep out of her W’ay. I won’t 
have you put out or troubled by any body — you 
know that very well. At the same time, my 
dear Judith,” he added, with a certain good- 
humored, brusque air of authority, which he 
occasionally assumed toward his sister-in-law, 
“let me recommend you to shake off morbid 
fancies, to finish the beef you have on your 
plate as briskly as possible, and to let me send 
you some more.” 

“ What is this nonsense about Tilly Cudberry 
that poor Judith has got in her head?” asked 
my grandfather as soon as he had an oppor- 
tunity of speaking to mo privately. I gave him 
as accurate an account of the scene that had 
passed as I could ; and he listened in a sort of 
serio-comic surprise. 

“ God bless me !” he cried, pushing his hair 
— now white as snow — upright with his fingers. 
“ She must be rather a severe infliction, this 
cast-iron cousin of yours, little Nancy. I hope 
poor Judith will remain in ignorance of the 
light in which the gentle Miss Cudberry regards 
her. I must take care to keep them apart as 
much as possible. Really I should almost be 
tempted to decline the honor of her visit. But 
it is too late. I sent off Havilah to Woolling 
with a note immediately after dinner. Hen ! 
There’s something unspeakably absurd in the 
notion of those two women mutually regarding 
each other as verging on lunacy !” 

That same evening Miss Cudberry arrived. 
She walked into the long dining-room with a 
mighty flouncing and rustling of silk. She had 
attired herself with great splendor for the pur- 
pose of dazzling the humdrum inhabitants of 
Mortlands. And she had certainly succeeded 
in producing a startling effect. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


14 !) 


There were in the dining-room when Tilly 
entered it only my grandhither, Donald, and 
myself. Mother and Mrs. Abram were sitting 
under a tree in the garden, and little Jane was 
with them. Tilly advanced to about the cen- 
tre of the room, and thus spake : 

“I have come from Woolling, Dr. Hewson, 
in our own sociable, Avith our own man-servant 
driving. Will you be so good as to allow our 
man-servant, Daniel, to put up our horse for 
an hour or two in your stable, and to return 
for him later ? Our man-servant has a few 
commissions to perform for pa in the town. Pa 
considers him a faithful and trusted servant. 
Pa wouldn’t on any account have alloAved any 
of the other men-servants to drive me in this 
eA'ening ; for our horse is a very valuable and 
spirited creature, and requires to be driven with 
particular care. How do you do. Dr. Hewson ? 
How do you do, Anne ? Mr. Ayrlie, I presume ; 
although you have never been presented to me, 
I dare say you have heard of Miss Cudberry of 
Woolling. How do you do?” 

And then Tilly paused to take breath. 

My grandfather was incapable of displaying 
any thing but the most delicate courtesy to a 
guest in his own house. But, to say truth, it 
was astonishingly difficult to be polite to Tilly : 
I despair of conveying to those Avho have never 
seen her how difficult it Avas. She AA'ould, at 
times, receive an attention, a mere simple ciA'il- 
ity, in a manner Avhich affected sensitive per- 
sons like a sudden bloAv. As to Donald, he 
Avas so bcAvildered by Miss Cudberry’s eloquence 
that he became as dumb and shy as a school- 
boy ; and I could not help a fit of laughter, 
which must have appeared contemptibly silly 
in my cousin’s eyes, Avhen she confided to me, 
Avith the Cudberry candor, that she found “that 
young Ayrlie uncommonly dull.” 

We Avere in the room that she Avas to occupy, 
and Eliza Avas engaged in unpacking Miss Cud- 
berry’s dresses. Miss Cudberry herself Avas 
majestically seated on the side of the bed, glan- 
cing at her smart clothes Avith all the pride of 
proprietorship. 

“Well, Anne,” said she, “I don’t see any 
thing to laugh at. I consider it pitiable. The 
young man has no more style than our head 
])loAvman. A mere lout ! And Avhat a coat ! 
I should think it was cut in the year one !” 

“ Every body can’t have such fashionable 
coats as Sam has, you knoAV,” said I, demurely. 

“ Well, I clorit knoAV, really. Why shouldn’t 
he ? His father left him avcU olf, didn’t he ?” 

“ Ob yes ; very Avell off.” 

“ How much, now, should you say ?” 

“I can not tell exactly. But I knoAV that 
Colonel Ayrlie Avas said to haA'e amassed a 
handsome independence.” 

“Ah ! Well, I shall endeavor to draAV him 
out a little,” said Tilly, after a pause of medi- 
tation, Avith her head on one side. “Poor 
young man, he has no chance of getting a little 
style among all you fogies ; noAv has he ? I dare 
say he finds it aAvfully dull here, for — you can’t 


mind my saying, my dear Anne, that you have 
groAvn quite a frump. Not, my dear child, that 
it’s to be Avondered at, all things considered ! 
But it must be depressing for a young man ; 
noAv mustn’t it ?” 

In pursuance of her benevolent design of 
rousing Donald from the lethargy of boredom 
Avhich she conceived was Aveighing on him, Tilly 
set to Avork, Avithout losing any time, to favor 
him Avith a great deal of her conversation. We 
all Avalked out into the garden before tea, and 
there Miss Cudberry seized upon Donald, and 
talked to him Avith an incessant volubility and 
shrillness Avhich nearly drove him distracted. 
I was so overcome by the absurdity of the scene 
— Tilly’s undoubting self-complacency, and 
Donald’s increasing gloom, Avhich began to 
groAV absolutely ferocious as he saAV no chance 
of getting aAvay from his tormentor — that I 
could but sit doAvn on the garden seat exhaust- 
ed Avith silent laughter. 

Donald scolded me terribly afterward. He 
stole out from the tea-table and called me into 
the garden, where he began to reproach me for 
delivering him up to that dreadful AA'oman.” 
We Avere Avithin an ace of having a set quar- 
rel about it, Avhen fortunately Ave got a glimpse 
of the comic side of the matter, Avhich, once 
beheld, could not be relinquished, and aa’b end- 
ed by going off into peals of laughter one 
against the other, until the tears ran doAvn our 
faces. 

During the Avhole of her visit Tilly held more 
or less steadfastly to her intention of “ drawing 
Donald out.” But her time Avas not all de- 
voted to that purpose. She announced on the 
first morning after her arriA'al that she had 
seA^eral visits to pay in Horsingham, and desired 
that a fly should be sent for, into Avhich she 
mounted alone, her small person secreted Avith- 
in the voluminous flounces of a cheap, gaudy, 
silk gOAvn, and her favorite pink hollyhocks 
trembling on her head. She told us at tea- 
time that she had been to see Lady Bunny. 
And Avhen I half involuntarily expressed sur- 
prise at her having done so, she replied sharply 
that I shoAved great ignorance of the Avorld in 
supposing that because Barbara Bunny Avould 
not marry her brother, she (Miss Cudberry of 
Woolling) Avas therefore bound to break Avith 
friends Avhose acquaintance AA^as, to a certain 
extent, agreeable to her. 

“ Nay,” said I, “ Tilly, I should haA'e had no 
such idea. But you all seemed so A'ery angry 
against the Bunnys that I thought you Avould 
never have any thing to say to them again. To 
tell you the truth, I considered your anger very 
unreasonable all the time.” 

“ I tell you Avhat,” she returned, Avith several 
A'ery emphatic nods of the head, “ I don’t mean 
to sacrifice myself for the Cudberrys. The 
Cudberrys don’t appear to haA'e any intention 
of sacrificing themselves for me. I have hither- 
to identified myself, perhaps romantically, Avith 
the Cudberrys. But I sha’n’t do so any more. 
Certain things have happened lately Avhich con- 


loO 


AKKE FUllNESS. 


vince me that I ha'l better look out for myself, 
as other people look out for their selves.” 

This was the first word I had ever heard 
from Tilly of disparagement of the “family” 
en masse (although she would rate each member 
of it separately with sufiicient severity), the 
first hint she had ever given of an idea of sepa- 
rating herself from it in any way. In my mo- 
ther’s presence even Tilly put a little restraint 
on her boisterous volubility. But there were 
many afternoon hours which mother passed in 
her own room, and these Tilly took advantage 
of to entertain us with the gossip of Horsingham. 
It was a constant marvel to me how she had con- 
trived to pick up the news she imparted to us. 

In this way I learned that Matthew Kitchen 
had given a large sum of money for the erec- 
tion of a brick building, to be called the Tab- 
ernacle, and used as a place of worship by the 
dissenting sect to which he belonged. Mr. 
Kitchen was quite an eminent man among them, 
and their preachers came from distant parts of 
England to receive the hospitality of his house, 
and to speak in his chapel. He was a very 
rich man for one in his station, and day by day 
was becoming richer. He had bought shares 
here and there, and had dabbled in the affairs of 
several companies even in London ; withdraw- 
ing on each occasion at an advantageous mo- 
ment, so as to suffer none of the troubles which 
ensued when the said companies, as generally 
happened, collapsed into inextricable ruin. 

There was a talk of some extraordinarily 
valuable slate quarries having been discovered 
not far from Brookfield, and of a company being 
formed to work them, and of a “ City man” — a 
mighty personage on the Stock Exchange — 
coming down to have a look at the place before 
drawing up a floii’Ishing prospectus of the com- 
pany. And Sir Beter Bunny had some vague 
idea of putting a little money into it if it looked 
promising. And thus Tilly rattled on with an 
abundance of detail, as if she had been in the 
innermost confidence of all the people she talk- 
ed about. 

■ My — * 

CHAPTER LI. 

At the end of a week I asked Donald to 
give me his promised explanation. The fol- 
lowing day Tilly Cudberry was going out to 
tea with some recent acquaintance she had 
made in Horsingham — having shown lately 
a feverish anxiety to make neAv acquaintances 
— and Donald promised me that he would de- 
vote part of the afternoon to telling me what I 
wished to know. 

“Why,” said I, “is it so long a business, 
then ?” 

Yes, it would take some time, he told me, 
to enter into the matter as fully as he desired. 
I waited with a good deal of impatience for 
the appointed time, and busied my brain with 
a great many conjectures ; none of which, how- 
ever, came near the truth. 


We had arranged to meet in the garden, 
but the afternoon proved rainy, and we could 
not go out. After dinner mother and Mrs.- 
Abram left us as usual. Grandfather sat for a 
few minutes in his easy-chair, making notes in 
a memorandum-book. Donald and I seated 
ourselves near the window at the other end of 
the room, watching the dark, dropping clouds 
as they slowly passed above the summits of the 
leafy elms. Gradually the memorandum-book 
dropped from my grandfather’s fingers, and he 
fell into a doze. He had latterly taken a liab- 
it of sleeping in his chair after dinner, and we 
lowered our voices so as not to disturb him. 

“Anne,” said Donald, “you must prepare 
for rather a long story. Do you remember 
hearing that I had gone away suddejily from 
your grandfather’s house?” 

“ Remember it ! How could I have forgot- 
ten it?” 

“ No ; but I did not know whether the man- 
ner of my going had ever reached your ears. 
It was just about the time when your own 
great affliction must have swallowed up all 
lesser considerations.” 

“ Nevertheless I did hear that yon had gone 
away from Mortlands quite suddenly and se- 
cretly. Grandfather wrote us word. His let- 
ter came just before — ” 

He pressed my hand silently, and after a 
little pause began : 

“I walked to Diggleton’s End, and there, 
the night being threatening, and I fasting and 
weary, took refuge in the house of your father’s 
old servant, Dodd.” 

“Where you Avere robbed that same night.” 

“You knoAV that too? Did Dr. IleAvson 
tell you ?” 

“ He told me the bare fact as you had writ- 
ten it to him, but I had a fuller account of the 
matter from Dodd himself.” 

Then I repeated to Donald all that Dodd 
had told me. 

“Well,” said he, after hearing me out, 

“ that abbreviates my story very greatly. Dodd 
saw that I was out of sorts, as he told you. 
But, of course, he did not guess how heart-sick 
and wretched I Avas ; hoAv miserable I AA'as 
rendered by my jealous thoughts. During the 
day, Avhen I Avas going about among Dr. Hew- 
son’s patients in Horsingham, I had heard 
gossiping allusions to your engagement to Ger- 
vase Lacer. Some approved, some disap- 
proA'ed it, but no one insinuated a doubt as to 
the fact. I think there can be no doubt that 
he industriously spread the report himself. It 
Avas all very bitter to me, and I resolved to go 
away Avithout waiting for any leave-taking. I 
thought that once at a distance ft'om Horsing- 
ham I should be calmer, and I knew that I 
could Avrite to Dr. IleAvson that Avhich I had 
not self-command enough to say to him. I 
had not very long before received a remittance 
from my father’s bankers in London. There 
remained of it something OA^er fifty pounds, and 
I kneAv that that Avas more than sufficient for 


ANNE FURNESS. 


lol 


my present purposes. I intended to go straiglit 
to town, and there determine on my future 
course of action. You have heard how I 
shared ray supper with the stranger whom I 
found in possession of the inn parlor when I 
arrived. From the first glimpse of him he im- 
pressed me most unfavorably. There was 
something altogether extraordinary about the 
man’s appearance and manner.” 

“Of course there must have been! Is it 
not evident that he was disguised ? And I 
suppose you have no doubt that he was the 
thief who stole your money ?” 

“ I have no doubt of that whatsoever.” 

“I suppose he was a ‘professed’ London 
thief, who had come to Ilorsingham to exercise 
his calling during the race week.” 

“Il’m! Y — yes, I suppose so. But there 
was something about the fellow which puzzled 
me, and which still puzzles me, and which that 
hypothesis does not wholly account for.” 

“ Well, Donald ?” 

“Well, my darling, we sat down to supper, 
and the man began to pour forth denunciations 
against the wickedness of races, and of those 
who bet on them, those who took part in them, 
and those who witnessed them. He talked in 
a queer, snufiling tone, interlarding his speech 
with the cut-and-dried cant phrases of an itin- 
erant preacher of the lowest class. I was not 
in a mood to be communicative ; I am always 
shy and reserved with strangers, and I partic- 
ularly object to the irreverent arrogance of fel- 
lows of that kind. Which three causes com- 
bined to keep me very taciturn. But the 
stranger did not allow my manner to chill him. 
He ate very little. I, on the other hand, was 
in need of food ; and as I ate my supper he 
talked and talked, rampant and unabashed. 
By-and-by he mentioned some names I knew.” 

“ Our name, did he not ?” 

“Yours among others.” 

“You need not tell me what he said, dear. 
I can fancy too well what sort of text poor fa- 
ther’s name Avould furnish to a man of the sort 
you describe.” 

“ But, Anne — I promised to tell you the 
truth, but I find it a more irksome task than I 
had counted on.” 

“Donald ! Don’t mistrust me ! What can 
hurt me so long as you hold my hand and look 
into my eyes confidingly? I know that you 
believe in my truth, and you must not doubt 
my belief in your believing!” 

“My dearest, the man did not mention 
merely your fiither; he spoke, and at some 
length, of you!" 

“Of 

“See, now! You blanch and quiver di- 
rectly ! All that woman’s pride of yours is 
aroused at a touch ! ” 

“No, dear Donald. Please to go on. I 
was only startled. I am sure I am acquainted 
with no such person as the man you speak of.” 

“He didn’t profess to know you personally. 
He had heard of you, ho said, from a sad rep- 


robate — one whom he had tried to convert from 
his evil ways, having had some acquaintance 
with his father and mother — from Mr. Gervase 
Lacer, in short. ‘But,’ he said, ‘reprobate as 
Lacer may be from a godly and righteous 
man’s point of view, the young woman has not 
treated him very honorably. She has been 
playing fast and loose between him and anoth- 
er young man who has money expectations.’ 
He went on to say, in the same canting and 
offensive manner, that he knew you to have 
been solemnly engaged to Lacer — that he had 
seen letters from you to him.” 

“ Letters ! Letters from me to Mr. Lacer ?” 

“ And that it was only on discovering that 
fortune had turned the cold shoulder on him 
that you had turned him yours also. When I 
stopped him, abruptly enough, with the state- 
ment that I had the honor to be your friend 
and your parents’ friend, and that I could not 
listen to utterly unfounded calumnies against 
those whom I respected, he took to his hypo- 
critical mask of sanctimoniousness again, and 
spoke after the fashion of that brute Matthew 
Kitchen. He must bear witness ! He had 
tried to snatch his young friend Lacer as a 
brand from the burning! I left him in the 
middle of a sentence, and walked out into the 
orchard.” 

“Donald, you did not give any credence to 
the fellow’s statement ? I won’t insult you hy 
even asking the question. I am sure you did 
not.” 

“Dear Anne, you must remember all the 
circumstances as they appeared to me at the 
time. I did not, of course, give an instant’s 
thought to the accusation of mercenary and dis- 
honorable conduct on your part. But I didieel 
confirmed in my belief that you had engaged 
yourself to Lacer. Think Avhat it must have 
been to me to suppose you the promised wife 
of a man who was capable of speaking your 
name and discussing your conduct with such a 
one as this stranger!” 

“You should never have belieA^ed it, Don- 

“It is true. And — I don’t know Avhether 
I can make you understand me when I say that 
I never did thoroughly believe it. Never, with 
all my heart; that’s just it, Anne. I believed 
with my head, but not Avith my heart. There 
Avas an obstinate, blind conviction in me that 
you could not have betrothed yourself to such a 
man. For, although he might haA^e deceived 
you for a time, and to a certain extent, I could 
not conceive your keen sense and purity of mind 
being entirely baffled by any amount of hypoc- 
risy on his part. And yet — and yet — Avhat 
was I to think ? I turned aAvay from my in- 
stinctive conA’iction, fearing to be fooled into 
believing Avhat I wished merely because I Avished 
it. Well, after remaining for some time in the 
orchard, I came into the house just as a storm 
was beginning. It had been threatening for 
some hours. I Avent to my room at once, and 
to bed, where, in spite of my troubles, and in 


152 


ANNE FURNESS. 


spite of the thunder and the rain, I slept soundly 
— being, indeed, tired out. The next morning 
came the discovery of the robbery, just as you 
have heard it from Dodd. But what Dodd 
could not tell you was this. The oily scrap of 
paper which I found on the floor near my door, 
and on w'hich it Avas evident the thief had wiped 
his Angers after oiling the lock, was a fragment 
of a letter in your handwriting. ” 

“In iny handwriting ? Impossible ! ” 

“Nay, Anne, it is true. I kncAv your hand 
perfectly. Besides, there were a few words about 
your father — anxiety for him, and so forth.” 

“But — I can not understand. How, in 
Heaven’s name, could it have come into that 
man’s possession ?” 

“ I had my theory about that too. I believed 
that Lacer — the letter must have been addressed 
to Lacer — had given it to him. Later I fan- 
cied the vagabond might have stolen the letter. 
But it is a strange matter, look at it as we will. 
Here is the fragment. I carefully preserved 
it. Judge for yourself.” 

He took from his pocket a torn piece of a 
letter, very oiled and greasy. The writing on 
it was mine. Impossible not to recognize it. 
And, moreover, I perceived in an instant that 
it was a portion of a letter I had written to 
Gervase Lacer — the letter of which I had 
spoken to my mother. I Avas stupefied. I 
turned the morsel of paper this Avay and that, 
as though I could elucidate the mystery by do- 
ing so! Donald looked at me thoughtfully. 
I glanced up at him once suddenly, as the re- 
flection occurred to me hoAv difficult it must 
have been for him to belicA-e in me implicitly 
after seeing those torn lines. But there AA’as 
no glimmer of distrust in his eyes. Had there 
been I should have felt repulsed, and my lips 
Avould liaA'e been unable to utter a Avord of ex- 
planation. Very unreasonably, I grant; for 
Donald might Avell have been excused for ex- 
hibiting some touch of suspicion — or, at least, 
of uneasiness. But he shoAved neither. This 
Avas the fragment of the letter : 

“ Can you devise no plan You do 

not know hoAV dear, hoAV precious Perhaps 

I ought not to Avrite this ; but I cling to any 
chance. Pray come and let me speak to you. 
You have always professed so Avarm an at- 
tachment We are most anxious about fa- 
ther. Do not ” 

“I remember quite Avell writing this letter,” 
said I, after a little pause. “ It w'as addressed 
to Geiwase Lacer, and I wrote it just before 
that fatal race Avhich brought us such mis- 
ery. I had a wild kind of forlorn hope that 
Mr. Lacer might be able to avert it at the 
eleventh hour. No one kneAV of my Avriting 
at the time. I told my mother afterward. 
She Avill remember.” 

“Noav, my dearest, the mystery is — how did 
the man in the inn get that letter ?” 

“To me, Donald, I confess the mystery ap- 
pears insoluble. I can not even begin to con- 
jecture.” 


“Well,” said Donald, laying the scrap of 
paper on the table, and leaning his forehead 
on his hand, “I Avill tell you my notion. It. 
can be but a guess, you knoAv. I think that 
Lacer was mixed up Avith a great many black- 
guards of a thoroughly Ioav and unprincipled 
sort. Perhaps he Avas by no means the Avorst 
among his associates.” 

“I do belieA’e that, Donald!” cried I, quick- 
ly. I should have done better to haA’e re- 
frained from the exclamation, as I felt directly 
it had slipped out. But Donald AA^as too hon- 
est-minded to do conscious injustice to any one. 
So, albeit he looked a shade graver, he Avas not 
tempted into contradicting me, but said, quiet- 
ly : “I say that I think it very likely, my dear. 
But it is too plain that he Avas quite deA'oid of 
any delicate sense of honor or honesty, and 
that he spoke of you all at Water-Eardley as 
he should not have spoken ; and made use of 
his intimacy there to further his OAA'n ends. 
Noav it may Avell be that some felloAv still more 
unscrupulous than he thought it AA'Ould be a 
desirable thing to get some hold on your family 
— thought such a letter as that might serve him 
in doing so : how can AA^e tell Avhat schemes 
might have been hatching ? Say that this man 
got hold of the letter surreptitiously ; then came 
the unexpected result of the race, and all that 
folloAved it. He could make no use of the 
letter either with Lacer or your father. He 
Avas trying to get aAvay from Horsingham un- 
recognized. That much is clear. Most likely 
he had no set purpose of robbeiy in his head 
Avlien he entered Dodd’s house. The oppor- 
tunity tempted him ; and he used the letter to 
remove the oil from his fingers, either not car- 
ing to keep it any longer, or else not perceiA^^ 
ing in the darkness Avhat it Avas.” 

“Oh! and then there AA-as FloAver!” I ex- 
claimed, clasping my hands together Avith a sud- 
den recollection of that Avretch’s parting scene 
Avith my mother. Then I told Donald how in- 
solent he had been, and hoAV he had talked 
vaguely of letters of mine Avhich he kneAv of. 

We talked together for some time longer 
about the strange business of the letter, speak- 
ing in a loAv tone so as not to disturb grandfa- 
ther’s slumbers. Donald declared he felt almost 
convinced that FloAver Avas at the bottom of the 
matter. 

“ But Avhat need we care for it further, dear 
Anne ?” he said at length. “ It made me very 
Avretched, and brought a dark cloud betAA'cen us 
for a Aveary Avhile. But iioav the cloud is clear- 
ed aAA'ay forever and a da3\” 

“Forever, Donald?” 

“ Is it not, my OAvn one ?” 

“ It is so good of you to trust me, dear. 
Some people in your place Avould ahvays be 
haunted by uncomfortable suspicions of — they 
kneAv not what, unless the Avhole case could be 
made plainer than I hav'e any poAver to make it 
at this time.” 

“ ‘ Some people !’ Not people Avho had once 
knoAvn Anne Furness as I know her.” 


153 


AKNE FURNESS. 


Ketiirali caine to the door to call Donald. 
He had been sent for to a poor patient. 

“Don’t Avake grandfather,” I said, warning- 
ly ; but looking round, I saw my grandfather’s 
eyes wide open, and mildly regarding us. 
Donald went away at once. I accompanied 
him through the glass door into the garden, and 
when I came back to the dining-room, which 
was now empty, grandfather having gone to his 
study, I bethought me of the scrap of the letter, 
and looked for it, intending to examine it once 
more, and to try to recall the missing words so 
as to make complete phrases. But it was gone. 
I searched for it for some time in vain. Then 
it occurred to me that if Keturah’s quick eye 
had lighted on so untidy-looking a fragment of 
])aper she would undoubtedly haA'e consigned it 
to the kitchen fire. I thought it best to say 
nothing about it until Donald should return. 
And, indeed, of Avhat use Avas the paper noAv to 
any one ? It might as Avell be burned as not, 
I reflected. 


CHAPTER LII. 

Tilly Cudberry’s visit to Mortlands ex- 
tended itself from a Aveek to a fortnight, and at 
the end of a fortnight had by no means come 
to an end. After the first Aveek she did not trou- 
ble us Avith much of her company. When Don- 
ald was at home she Avould fasten on him — al- 
Avays, as I conjectured, Avith the same benevo- 
lent intention of “draAving him out.” But at 
length, I fancy, some notion of his position Avith 
regard to me began to daAvn on her ; and she 
relinquished her attempts to enliven him, or, as 
she AA'Ould herself have said, to give him “a 
little style.” Besides, her engagements in 
Horsingham Avere really surprisingly numer- 
ous. She appeared quite to have abandoned 
the family traditions of exclusiveness and re- 
serve Avith regard to the outer Avorld, and min- 
gled in such Horsingham dissipations as she 
could attain to AA'ith great affability. Indeed, 
she appeared Avilling to knoAv every body, and 
had quite ceased to declare, in her old way, that 
“Miss Cudberry of Woolling” could not be- 
come acquainted Avith trades-people, or Avith ob- 
scure persons of unknoAvn pedigree. 

One day Tilly persuaded me to accompany 
her on a shopping expedition into the High 
Street. 

“ There’s really nobody else I can ask,” said 
she, naivel}' ; “for Barbara Bunny is never at 
liberty in the morning — or at least she says so. 
She’s quite a frump ! Quite stay-at-home and 
old-maidish, I assure you, is poor Barbara. 
And as to my Avalking doAvn High Street Avith 
jioor Soft — Avith poor Mrs. Abram — that, of 
course, is out of the question.” 

In explanation of the sudden check in my 
cousin’s speech I must state that she had at 
one time taken the habit of speaking of Mrs. 
Abram as “Softy,” having neA'cr relinquished 
her theory of that good soul’s utter imbecility. 


But I had so sharply rebuked her for it, and so 
plainly given her to understand that Dr. IIcav- 
son Avould be seriously offended should he ever 
hear sucli an epithet applied to his sister-in-laAA", 
that Tilly had thought it best not to persist in 
the use of it — at all events in speaking to me. 

I was not very Avilling to go, but I could not 
refuse to accompany Tilly. I had really been 
called upon to do very little in the Avay of enter- 
taining her during her visit at Mortlands. We 
set forth together, and Avalked in much state 
doAvn the High Street, closely attended by 
Roger Bacon, Avho, by-the-Avay, had taken a 
rooted aversion to Tilly, and regarded her Avith 
manifest and Avatchful suspicion — much as an 
acute policeman might regard a Avell-knoAvn 
thief, Avith the quiet and unshakable expecta- 
tion of his doing something to commit himself 
presently. 

After having made a feAv unimportant pur- 
chases, Avith as much pomp as though she had 
been expending enormous sums of money, Tilly 
announced her intention of proceeding quite to 
the end of the High Street, and then turning to 
go home the same Avay. 

“Do you want to buy any thing at the bot- 
tom of the High Street ?” I asked. 

“ Oh dear, no ! But — I might see something 
that I should be likely to Avant some day — don’t 
you see ?” 

In accordance with Tilly’s plan Ave paraded 
sloAvly along the street, stopping to look in at 
every shop AvindoAV, immensely to Roger Ba- 
con’s surprise and discomfiture, Avho Avas unac- 
customed to such proceedings. 

As Ave passed the corner of a by-street Avhere 
there Avere extensive livery-stables, I saw a man 
standing at an open door, Avho presently took 
off his hat and made me a profound boAV. In 
a moment I perceived that the man Avas Mr. 
Whiffles. I had seen him once or tAvice Avhen 
I had been out in Horsingham ; and although 
the sight of him gave me a painful shock at 
first, I endeavored not to yield to the feeling 
Avhich Avould have prompted me to avoid glan- 
cing at him or returning his salute. After all, 
the man had done no Avrong to me or mine. 
And latterly I had heard that he had given up 
all connection Avith races and racing, and had 
established himself as a livery-stable keeper in 
Horsingham, Avhere he conducted himself re- 
spectably. My informant on this point Avas Til- 
ly Cudberry, Avho, as I haA'e mentioned, gath- 
ered up every Avaif and stray of gossip Avhich 
Avas to be met Avith in the tOAvn. 

I remembered Tilly’s old indignation at be- 
ing compelled to sit in the same room Avith Mr. 
Whiffles, and glanced at her in some appre- 
hension Avhen I saAv Mr. Whiffles make a sec- 
ond and equally profound boAV to her. But, to 
my relief, she nodded to him very graciously. 
We passed him, and Avalked on in silence for 
some distance. 

“ What a nice place that is, Avhere the horses 
are!” said Tilly at length. “And the dAvell- 
ing-house quite cheerful — the liveliest part of 


154 


ANNE FURNESS. 


High Street. The windows look both ways, 
u]) and down ! How extremely cheerful !” 

I made no answer, and Tilly jiresently in- 
quired, in a huffed tone, if I were “in the 
sulks ?” 

“No, indeed, Tilly.” 

“What’s the matter, then?” 

“I — the sight of that man always disturbs 
my equanimity somewhat. I can not overcome 
the feeling as yet.” 

“Oh dear I But you ought to overcome it. 
You must overcome it. Goodness, Anne, how 
very wrong it is to nourish an aversion for a 
fellow-creature with such extremely respectful 
and — and — -/j/easawt— such pleasant manners as 
Mr. Whiffles!” 

I stared at her for a moment in surprise. 
But not being willing to pursue the subject, I 
ca:lled Tilly’s attention to an orange - colored 
bonnet in a milliner’s window, and thus happi- 
ly averted any further lecture on my want of 
charity and tolerance for Mr. Whiffles. I could 
not help, however, being secretly amused at the 
spirit of contradiction exhibited by Miss Cud- 
berry. When she had thought that Mr. Whif- 
fles was Avell received in our old home she had 
openly expressed her disgust and contempt for 
him ; but now that I rather shrank from the 
sight of him, Tilly discovered a hitherto unsus- 
pected charm in poor Mr. Whiffles’s manners. 

As we again passed the livery-stables on our 
way back (without having bought any thing, 
after all ; for Tilly’s pm-se-strings were always 
rather tight-drawn, and the principal part of her 
“shopping” consisted in looking at the goods 
from the outside of the window) Mr. Whiffles 
W’as still standing at the door, and repeated his 
bows as profoundly as before. I was passing 
onward, when, to my utter surprise and annoy- 
ance, Tilly stopped to say, “And how do you 
do, Mr. Whiffles? You have quite a nice place 
here, I declare !” 

Mr. Whiffles took advantage of the moment- 
ary pause to say to me, very quickly and eager- 
ly, “ Miss Furness, I hope you’ll excuse the lib- 
erty, but — I — I am very hanxious, indeed, to 
know how your honored ma is ? Of course I 
have heard, in common with the ’ole of Horsing- 
ham, that she was very ill, and is better. But 
I should like — I mean it "would be most agree- 
able to me to hear that she was — coming round 
a bit, if you’ll overlook the commonness of the 
expi’ession. Miss Furness.” 

The man’s face and manner showed genuine 
feeling. I could not but respond to it, although 
I felt greatly agitated, as the remembrance of 
our last interview came vividly into my mind. 

“Thank you for your interest in my mo- 
ther,” I said. “Every one has been kind and 
good to her. I am thankful to say that she is 
well, and quite — quite composed. Good-by, 
Mr. Whiffles.” 

But I was not to get away so easily. Tilly 
was seized with a sudden desire to inspect Mr. 
Whiffles’s stables. “ Quite a picture, they tell 
me in Horsingham ! And now hoio many horses 


have you, really ? One hears such rumors. 
Wouldn’t you like to see them, Anne?” 

I shook my head impatiently. “ Pray come* 
away,” I whispered to her. Mr. Whiffles com- 
prehended the situation better than Tilly did. 
He twitched his head from side to side, and his 
red face grew a shade redder as he said, in his 
melancholy, monotonous, and rather hoarse 
voice, “Miss — a — Miss Woolling, I’m sure — ” 

“Cudberry!” corrected Tilly, sharply. And 
then added, with a superior and condescending 
smile, “ Q/* Woolling. Yes; Miss Cudberry 
0/ Woolling.” 

“I’m sure, miss,” continued Mr. Whiffles, 
wisely eschewing the lady’s name altogether, 
“that any time when it came handy, or any 
ways convenient to you, or any of your friends, 
to see my place, you’d do me proud if you'd 
just step in. I should be must ’appy to take 
you over the place. There’s a paddock at the 
back Avhere you can see ’em exercise a bit some- 
times, if you care for that sort of thing, miss. 
We ’ave one or two bits of blood that jumps 
very prettily — very prettily, indeed. And say 
next Monday, or Saturday, between nine and 
twelve. I shall look on it as a Aonor, miss. 
Quite so !” 

All this time Mr. AVhiffles was bowing and 
edging himself away from Tilly, and, at the end 
of his speech, he quietly and quickly disap- 
peared round the corner of the street. I was 
grateful to him for the manoeuvre, without 
which I know not what chance I should have 
had of inducing Tilly to come away with me. 

All that afternoon she talked of Mr. Whif- 
fles ; of his horses, his stables, his obliging man- 
ners ; the remarkable way in which he had 
pressed her to do him the honor of visiting his 
place w’ith a chosen party of friends, and of her 
intention of conferring that honor upon him, 
and (doubtless) Ailing him Avith proud exulta- 
tion, at a very early date. It was all I could 
do to prevent her from mentioning the man’s 
name before my mother. But later I discov- 
ered that my mother had observed Tilly’s hints 
and mysterious allusions to some “ magnificent” 
horses that she Avas asked to go and see, and 
had quietly gained from Judith an explanation 
of the matter. She took an opportunity of 
mentioning Mr. Whiffles’s name herself, in or- 
der to let me understand — dear, good mother I 
— that I need be under no apprehension of her 
being too much agitated or distressed at hearing 
him spoken of. It Avas true, nothing seemed 
to startle or disturb her noAV. I believe it Avas 
because her grief A\^as so ever-present to her 
that no allusion to it could come as a shock of 

In the evening, Avhen Ave Avere at tea. Uncle 
Cudberry appeared Avith his daughter Clemen- 
tina and her betrothed. Little Jane ArkAvright 
had by this time ceased to be an inmate of 
Mortlands, having returned to her parents’ 
home, but on this special cA^ening she had come 
to drink tea Avith Mrs. Abram ; so that our party 
in the long dining-room Avas quite a large one. 


ANNE FURNESS. 


155 


Mother slipped away quietly after a short 
time ; and then the talk, which her presence 
had somewhat subdued, grew louder and more 
voluble. 

Uncle Cudberry had come, as it seemed, 
chiefly to announce to my grandflither, witli all 
due formality, the engagement of his youngest 
daughter, and to state that the wedding was 
flxed to take place in a month, Clemmy had 
brightened and improved wonderfully under the 
influence of her new position. She wore her 
hair loosely curling round her face, I noticed, 
and seemed to have grown younger. Tilly had 
previously learned the date of her sister’s wed- 
ding in a letter from Woolling, so that the news 
did not take her by surprise. It was a sight to 
behold her condescension to Clemmy, her lofty 
and rigid demeanor toward young Hodgekin- 
son, and the indefinable air she assumed of hav- 
ing separated herself from her family. I know 
not how she contrived to convey this, but it was 
quite perceptible to Mr. Cudberry’s stolid ob- 
servation. 

“Well,” said he, in his slow manner, “and 
when are we to have the honor of having you 
back at Woolling, Miss Cudberrv?” 

It was an interesting question to most of 
those present, and there was a general pause in 
the conversation to hear the reply. 

“Oh, really, I can’t say, I’m sure ! Haven’t 
the least idea ! I have several invitations in 
llorsingham. The good people persecute me, 
I asliaw you !” (It was in this manner that 
Tilly pronounced “assure.”) 

“Il’m,” grunted Mr. Cudberry. “It’s the 
first I ever heard of the folks bein’ so set upon 
having any on you. We ain’t a pop’lar family 
in general. I don’t know as it pays to be par- 
tic’lar pop’lar.” Then, after a meditative pause, 
he added, “But it’ll be as well to give Dr. Hew- 
son some notion when he’s a-going to get quit 
of yon. Miss Cudberry.” 

Grandfather made a murmur of remonstrance. 
I am bound to confess it was but a feeble one. 
Mr. Cudberry entirely disregarded it, and went 
on : 

“And since it seems you can’t fix the time. 
Miss C., why, I must — that’s all ! You’ll come 
home o’ Saturday.” 

“Wo, pa!” screamed Tilly, emphatically. 
“Oh dear, no! I shall do nothing whatever 
of the kind.” 

Grandfather could not repress a smile. But 
he said pleasantly that Miss Cudberry was wel- 
come to remain at Mortlands yet a while lon- 
ger, if it suited her. In the case of almost any 
one else he would have given the unlimited in- 
vitation to “stay as long as she liked.” 

Tilly persisting in declining to go home on 
Saturday, a compromise was come to. She w'as 
to remain at Mortlands until the end of the 
week, and then was to go to some new friends 
she had picked up. 

“Most highly respectable people. Been in 
India. Husband quite the gentleman, only rath- 
er delicate in his health in consequence of the 


climate. Got a houseful of curiosities ; and 
Mrs. Nixon might hang herself from head to 
foot with beagles — no, what-do-you-call-’ems — 
bangles — from head to foot with bangles, if she 
liked. Most respectable !” screamed Til- 
ly, shaking her flounces and tossing her head. 

So it was settled that to the house of Mr. 
and Mrs. Nixon she was to repair after leaving 
us. Her father only made the proviso that she 
was, in any case, to return to Woolling before 
the week preceding her sister’s wedding. 

Tilly then drew Clementina on one side, and 
began to expatiate on the delights of a sojourn 
in llorsingham, and the competition among its 
inhabitants for the pleasure of her (Tilly’s) so- 
ciety. Donald good-naturedly talked to “Mrs, 
Hodgekinson’s son,” who was shy among stran- 
gers ; and Uncle Cudberry began speaking to 
my grandfather. 

“Well, Dr. Hewson,” said he, “have you 
heard any thing of those slate quarries the folks 
is talking of? Some say there’s fortunes to be 
made out on ’em ; but, any way, there’s fortunes 
to be lost! There’s never much trouble in get- 
ting rid of your cash — ’specially in them com- 
panies. I’m always for seeing my way clear, 
and knowing how the money’s spent. Now 
with them companies there’s no telling. Still 
they do say — ” 

And he went on harping on that string in a 
manner which led me to fancy he was tempted 
to invest some money in the speculation. 

Later we heard a great deal about the said 
slate quarries. The notion of forming a com- 
pany to work them, and of taking shares in the 
company, appeared to grow rapidly in popular 
favor. People said that Matthew Kitchen was 
in it, and that Matthew Kitchen always knew 
which side his bread was buttered. Look how 
rich he had grown ! And did you suppose all 
that was done by coach-building? No, no! 
Mat Kitchen knew a trick worth two of that. 

“No doubt he knows a great many tricks,” 
would be my grandfather’s curt remark on such 
speeches. But however much we and others 
might from our hearts despise him, it was cer- 
tain that Mr. Kitchen had amassed money, and 
that he was in consequence a man of consid- 
erable influence, who had his followers and his 
flatterers. 

Among those who were interested in the 
slate quarry project proved to be Dodd. The 
landlord of the Royal Oak came to speak to my 
grandfather on the subject one day. What did 
Dr. Hewson think of it ? Dodd had some fields 
through which a road must pass to the slate 
quarries, if the slate quarries ever became an 
accomplished fact. He ought to sell his fields 
at a pretty tidy price now, oughtn’t he ? The 
land where they said the slate was to be found 
belonged to two or three diff’erent owners. But 
there was talk of a London company coming 
and buying it all, and working it, and it was to 
be the making of Diggleton’s End — especially 
good for folks in the public line. And what 
would Dr. Hewson advise ? 


156 


ANNE EURNESS. 


Dr. Hewsou could advise little or nothing, 
having small knowledge of the state of the case ; 
Avhich circumstance — my grandfather being a 
rather uncommon and original sort of man in 
some things — sufficed to prevent his pronoun- 
cing an opinion upon it ! But Dodd was a little 
bitten with the idea of speculating — might not 
only sell his fields at a high rate, but even per- 
haps take a few shares in the company. A few 
shares couldn’t hurt ! And it would be hard to 
see all one’s neighbors turning a pretty penny, 
and to get no profit one’s self. Dodd was by no 
means exempt from theHorsingham love of pelf. 

However, the matter remained in a vague 
and rather mythic condition, many reports and 
opinions circulating respecting it ; no single 
fact authentically known, as it appeared, for a 
week or so longer. Then it was announced 
that a London man — sx, promoter^ as the phrase 
went — had seriously taken up the Diggleton’s 
End slate quarries, and was coming down to 
our county to make inquiries. He was to be 
accompanied by a gentleman competent to give 
a technical opinion as to the chances of success 
in the endeavor to get slate abundant in quan- 
tity and excellent in quality from the place 
indicated. 

It all appeared profoundly unimportant to us 
in our quiet home at Mortlands ; but we could 
not help hearing the gossip that floated hither 
and thither. After Tilly Cudberry’s removal 
from Mortlands it is true that we heard much 
less of it. But one day, on returning from a 
visit to Mrs. Arkwright — now once more estab- 
lished in a little home of her own, and employ- 
ing her nimble fingers as busily as ever in 
mending, washing, cooking, and other house- 
hold employments for her needy little brood — 
returning, I say, from this visit, I was surprised 
to learn from my grandfather that the London 
“promoter” had written him a note asking 
leave to call on him, as he had some questions 
to ask which he thought Dr. Hewson would be 
able to answer, and that close upon the note 
had followed the writer of it in person. 

“ What in the world did he come to you for, 
grandfather?” I asked. 

“Difficult to say, child. He thought, per- 
haps, that, as an old resident, and a medical 
man, I might have some information to give — ” 

“About slate quarries?” 

“Not about slate quarries, little Nancy, but 
about the persons who were most likely to buy 
shares in them, and the circumstances of the 
persons who own the land where the slate is to 
be found, and various other matters. He fish- 
ed a good deal as to my opinion of Matthew 
Kitchen.” 

“And you answered ?” 

‘ ‘ V ery curtly. Told Mr. Promoter that with 
my opinion of the man he had nothing to do ; 
and that as to the man’s money-bags I could 
give no information, and did not see that it 
was my business to do so if I could.” 

“Was it not an unusual proceeding, this 
stranger’s coming here at all ?” 


“Heaven know’s, child. I read here” (put- 
ting his hand on a newspaper) “the most in- 
credible accounts of things in general. But' 
of all incredible accounts, the accounts of the 
way in which ‘ companies’ are got up, and sim- 
ple souls defrauded of their cash, are, perhaps, 
supreme.” 

The London man was named Smith. He 
had taken up his abode neither at Horsingham 
nor at Brookfield, but at a small market-town 

nearer than either of these to W , our 

county town. He should not remain fixed 
there long, he had said. He was very busy, 
and nearly always “on the wing.” And that 
was all I heard about him at that time. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

Let it not be thought that I had quite light- 
ly dismissed the affair of the torn letter from 
my mind. I thought of it often, and the 
thought disturbed me. I would have given 
much to have it all cleared up. Donald trust- 
ed me entirely. Yes; I did not doubt that. 
But I wished that his confidence in me should 
be, as it were, rewarded by the removal of all 
mystery. I hated the kind of foggy atmos- 
phere which surrounded that one passage of 
my life in Donald’s eyes. It was suffocating 
and unwholesome. Perhaps, however, I exag- 
gerated both the amount and the balefulness of 
the “fog.” But then there was another ele- 
ment in the affair of the letter which was pain- 
ful to me — the thought, namely, of Gervase La- 
cer’s conduct. He had discussed me and my 
family, and his relations toward us, with stran- 
gers : a gratuitous injury, from which he could 
reap no possible advantage. He had told lies, 
too ; base and spiteful lies. Or might it be 
that the lies and the spite were added by the 
man with whom Donald had spoken at the inn ? 
In brief, I was perplexed and worried when- 
ever my thoughts recurred to the matter. But 
Donald did not seem to give it another thought. 

Meanwhile, from one source or another, we 
heard a good deal of the “quarries,” and of 
Mr. Smith and Mr. Edwards, the two City gen- 
tlemen from London. Mr. Smith was, it seem- 
ed, somewhat inaccessible : shrouded in a sort 
of golden mist from the gaze of the vulgar. A 
great man he ! A rich man ! Or, at least, if 
not rich (for no one could for the life of him 
affirm wherein the riches of Mr. Smith consist- 
ed. Only each one had heard it rumored — 
great speculator — Stock Exchange — thousands 
in a day lost or won! — and similar fragmentary 
phrases) — if not himself enormously rich, yet 
the associate of rich men. A “promoter” of 
riches ! and necessarily of much influence in 
the moneyed world. Mr. Edwards, on the con- 
trary, was much seen in Horsingham. He was 
the technical gentleman, and was understood 
to be ready with a favorable report of the slate 
quarries ; quite a glowing report, indeed, peo- 


ANNE FURNESS. 


pie affirmed. But we did not liappen to meet 
with any one who had seen it. 

Grandfather avoided mentioning in the town 
that he had been favored by a visit from Mr. 
Smith. But in some way the news leaked out ; 
probably by means of the coachman who had 
driven the great man in a fly from Market Dig- 
glcton (the little town I have mentioned his so- 
journing at) to Mortlands. It caused quite 
an excitement. Why should Mr. Smith have 
called on Dr. Ilewson? What for? I think 
that few persons implicitly believed Dr. Hew- 
son Avhen he said he did not know “what 
for.” 

Sir Peter Bunny called at Mortlands. He 
had driven to Market Diggleton, he said, and 
had been received by Mr. Edwards in a very — 
yes, a very proper and — and respectful man- 
ner. Very much so. But he had failed to see 
Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith being on the point of 
starting for London, w'here his presence was 
clamored for by the richest of the rich. He 
must go, even were it but for twenty-four 
hours. He would, however, return in two 
days at farthest. Sir Peter Bunny had left 
his card for Mr. Smith ; and — now, in confi- 
dence, what did Dr. Hewson think of the slate 
quaiTies? Sir Peter supposed he had had the 
hest and most authentic information, ch? Dr. 
Hewson knew nothing whatever of the quarries 
or the company ? Really ! Ha ! Well, well. 
Then what did Dr. Hewson think of Mr. Smith 
personally ? What, now, was his impression ? 
Come ! Always “in confidence,” of course. 

Dr. Hewson’s impression was not too highly 
favorable, it appeared. My grandfather de- 
scribed the great Mr. Smith as a man apparent- 
ly under forty, with a great deal of brown beard 
on his face, and the hair of his head cropped 
very close. A haggard-looking man, rather, 
although rather stout than lean. (“Aha! hag- 
gard, eh ? Enormous pressure of anxiety upon 
those kind of men ! Sums of money they have 
to deal wdth so enormous !'' from Sir Peter.) A 
restless eye that wandered about the room, as 
if in search of some one wdio never came. For 
the rest, soft-voiced — neither loud nor vulgar ; 
yet with a certain amount of pretentious self- 
assertion ; which, however, perceptibly dimin- 
ished before the interview was over. 

That latter circumstance I could well believe, 
grandfather not being of the sort which is easi- 
ly staggered by “pretentious self-assertion,” 
even when founded on solid pillars of coin of 
the realm. But I gave Mr. Smith credit for 
some sense and acuteness in that he had per- 
ceived this fact, and had mitigated his preten- 
sions accordingly. 

Then after Sir Peter Bunny came Alice 
Dodd, anxious to learn all that could be learn- 
ed of the prospects of the Diggleton’s End Slate 
Quarries Company; for Dodd had some thought 
of selling his fields ; and though she (Alice) was 
all against taking shares or speculating in the 
matter— -Lord forbid! — still selling the fields 
was another matter. And Alice’s blue eyes 


157 

shone with a glance keenly directed toward 
the main chance. 

“Bless the woman!” cried my grandfather, 
impatiently. “ Why come and ask me? I wish 
to Heaven the fellow — this Smith — had never 
taken it into his head to call on me ! All the 
world supposes, in consequence of his visit, that 
I have private information about these -wretch- 
ed quarries. My good Mrs. Dodd, I know 
nothing. But plain common sense — in which 
you and your husband are not lacking — will 
tell you how to act in the matter.” 

Indeed, grandfather was getting impatient 
of the whole matter, thinking it an inadequate 
cause for all the pother that was made about it 
in Horsingham ; fearing, too, that unwary per- 
sons might be deluded by the “ Company.” He 
had a perhaps exaggerated horror of all mon- 
ey speculations, and could not be persuaded to 
believe in the honest intentions of Messrs. Smith 
and Co. To all representations that it was as 
lawful and laudable to sell slate as to sell sugar, 
and that, if the owners of the quarries were not 
in a position to work them, it were surely well 
that several persons should combine to do so, to 
their own profit and to the advantage of every 
one who wanted slate — to all such remonstrances 
and representations he would answer (a little ob- 
stinately, dear grandfather!), “ Oh yes, yes, yes ; 
it all sounds reasonable and capital. I haven’t 
time to enter into the pros and cons. Life is 
short, and I am getting near the end of mine. 
Only I say that I don’t like the cut of this busi- 
ness, nor the cut of the man Smith. There ! 
Let’s have done with it.” 

It was easy enough to me, for one, to have 
done with it ; and a day or so would have suf- 
ficed to obliterate it all from my mind had not 
the gossips of Horsingham continued to keep it 
alive there. Even poor Mrs. Arkwright, needle 
in hand, would expatiate on the chance this in- 
vestment afforded, “if one /zac?but a little cap- 
ital!” The topic was at least a safe one for 
her, her husband being removed from that 
temptation by sheer want of cash to speculate 
w'ith. But they were doing fairly well now, I 
was glad to note. They had been living, ever 
since I first knew them, under the shadow of a 
cloud. The cloud had burst in a severe enough 
storm over their heads, but the atmosphere had 
been much clearer and more wholesome since. 
They lived now in the Kitchens’ old house in 
Burton’s Gardens. I never understood how 
Mrs. Arkwright contrived to stow away all the 
children in that tiny residence. But in some 
way it was effected. And I need not say that 
the house looked almost burnished Avith cleanli- 
ness inside and out. In place of the big escri- 
toire, Avhereon had stood in old days the white 
china elephant, Avith his gilt turret full of ink, 
there Avere noAV several roAVS of neat shelves — 
painted and decorated Avith red leather at their 
edges by Mrs. ArkAvright’s OAvn broAvn busy fin- 
gers — supporting Mr. ArkAvright’s books. Lit- 
tle Jane’s chair stood in one corner of the par- 
lor, although little Jane had* outgroAvn it by 


158 


ANNE FURNESS. 


this time, and passed her mornings at school, 
and was become very studious, and “papa” 
had hopes of her really turning out clever. 
“Not a genius, you know, Miss Furness. No, 
no, no. But considering how young she is — 
little more than a baby still — I think if you 
were to hear her read poetry you would really 
— without, I hope, paternal vanity — ” And so 
on. All of which utterances were balm and 
honey to his poor wife. Mrs. Arkwright pro- 
fessed a Spartan stoicism with regard to little 
Jane; saying, curtly, that it was well to read 
poetry nicely to please papa, but that stocking- 
mending and the deft and accurate adding to- 
gether of figures must in nowise be shoved into 
secondary importance. But it was noticeable 
how willing she was, in fact^ to relieve the little 
grave, gray-eyed creature from any thing like 
drudgery, and how proud she was of little 
Jane’s spiritual gifts — especially of her “ turn 
for poetry” — for which Mrs. Arkwright herself 
had certainly no turn at all. 

About this time Clementina begged me to 
assist her with my advice as to some of her 
wedding garments, now in a forward state of 
preparation. I took the opportunity of my 
grandfather and Donald being absent from 
Mortlands for the day to pay this visit. I had 
arranged that I would stroll over from Wool- 
ling to Diggleton’s End, and return home from 
thence at an early hour in the evening. My 
good friends Mr. and Mrs. Dodd had often 
pressed me warmly to go and see them. Alice 
was eager to show me all the glories of the 
Royal Oak under the reign of its new mistress. 
I thought I -would take her by surprise — Alice 
was, I knew, one of those completely notable 
and thorough-going housewives who would be 
sure to come out triumphantly from the ordeal 
of being called upon unexpectedly (a danger- 
ous ordeal for many women who think the es- 
sence of good management consists in living in 
a chronic state of fuss) — and would ask her to 
give me some tea and send me home in the 
evening. Dodd had said that he would drive 
me into Horsingham at any time that suited 
me. “It wouldn’t be the first time as I’ve had 
that ^onor. Miss Anne,” said he. “Do you 
remember how often me and Selina took you 
in to your grandfather’s in the old days ? Lord ! 
to think of the changes! And now Selina’s 
my sister-in-law, and a rich woman.” 

“Rich!” echoed Alice. ‘■‘AVh}’^ lad, the 
gOAvn she’d on her back last time I -see her— 
ten-and-sixpence a yard didn’t pay for it. And 
a gold chain as thick as my little finger! Quite 
the lady ! ” 

“ Quite the what?" growled Dodd. 

“Well, to look: at, I mean.” 

But Dodd would by no means admit that 
Mrs. Matthew Kitchen’s fine clothes gave her 
even a distant resemblance to a lady. 

It was a pleasant summer noon when I 
reached Woolling. Poor Clementina was un- 
feignedly glad to see me. Nor does the state- 
ment involve any self-flattery; for her sister 


Henrietta chose to look unfavorably on the 
forthcoming w'edding from a lofty and Cudber- 
ryan point of view, declined to give any assist-, 
ance in the preparation of what Uncle Cudberry 
called the trusso, and never opened her lips on 
the subject save to utter a sneer or a scoff. 
Clemmy, therefore, was glad of such assistance 
and advice as I could give her, and really grate- 
ful for being treated with sympathy. 

Aunt Cudberry was in a state of nervous ex- 
citement beyond her W’ont. 

“It’s the breakfast, my dear!” said she, plaint- 
ively. “Mrs. Ilodgekinson is so particular 
about her eating, poor thing! And only the 
day before yesterday she made some quite cut- 
ting remarks about the patent gelatine. And 
how you’re to get a glaze on -your tongue with- 
out it, Anne, I don’t know !” 

“But must you — get a glaze. Aunt Cudber- 
ry ?” asked I, unable to repress a smile. 

“My dear,” responded Aunt Cudberry, with 
much solemnity (although the effect of her im- 
pressive manner was somewhat marred by her 
cap being so much awry as to make her look 
like “Judy” attired by an unconscientious show- 
man), “I should like to know what Mrs. Hodge- 
kinson would say to a tongue ivithout a glaze on 
it! You don’t know what she is, Anne Fur- 
ness.” 

“Tell’ee What, Mrs. C.,” put in Uncle Cud- 
berry, looking up stolidly from his paper ; “ the 
best thing you can do is to send your tongue to 
the little lame cabinet-maker in Woolling, and 
get it French-polished.” 

And Uncle Cudberry actually winked at me, 
although with an otherwise grimly unmoved 
countenance, to bespeak my enjoyment of the 
joke! 

But this w’ant of sympathy with her anxie- 
ties reduced his poor wife to tears ; and Clemmy 
and I had a good twenty minutes’ work of coax- 
ing and consoling to perform before she would 
dry her eyes and be comforted. 

“It’s all very well for IMr. Cudberry,” said 
she, with her face half buried in her large pock- 
et-handkerchief, “and for the girls. They're not 
responsible ! It doesn’t harrow their feelings to 
hear remarks passed on the puff paste, nor to 
see a person swallowing your home-made wine 
in gulps, as if it was castoi'-oil !” 

However, we finally brought her to a more 
cheerful frame of mind ; and she discussed 
trimmings and patterns with us, and busied her 
fancy with the fine appearance the whole family 
would present in their wedding costumes, until 
she became quite complacent in her own odd 
way, and drew herself up, and bridled and si- 
dled and made faces, with an air of conscious 
quality. Boor Aunt Cudberry ! ■ She was the 
least selfish of the family party, and was gener- 
ally contented to shine with a reflected light. 

At the dinner-hour young Ilodgekinson ap- 
peared, and after a brief and merely formal 
resistance, was persuaded to stay and dine at 
Woolling. 

“It’s disgusting!” said Henny, in so loud a 


ANNE FURNESS. 


159 


tone that I feared her future brother-in-law 
would hear her. 

“Oh, don’t be cross with William, Henny!” 
remonstrated Clementina, meekly. She cer- 
tainly had grown more gentle since her en- 
gagement, and appeared to wish to conciliate her 
sisters. But they were not to be conciliated. 

“I say it is disgusting, Clementina!” rejoined 
Ilenny, with increased asperity. “ Mrs. Hodge- 
kinson’s son is here to dinner four days a week, 
lie lives atWoolling. lie has fastened himself 
on the family in a manner equally devoid of de- 
corum and — and — deference. Any approach 
to style was naturally not to be expected from 
Mrs. Ilodgekinson’s son ; but one might look 
for a little respect and appreciation for the fam- 
ily he is about to ally himself with I” 

“Well, really,” said I, a little impatiently, 
“I think William Ilodgekinson is uncommonly 
kind and civil, and the soul of good temper.” 

Henny turned on me with a snap. 

“When Mrs. Ilodgekinson’s son gorges him- 
self to repletion four times a week at yowr table, 
and addresses you in his clod-hopping language 
as ‘old lass,’ before your man-servant, who 
nudges your elbow and says ‘ It’s you he means, 
miss!’ you will be qualified to judge of Mrs. 
Ilodgckinson’s son’s manners, and not before, 
Anne Furness.” 

I had an opportunity of studying the youth’s 
manners that very afternoon ; for he was good 
enough, on hearing that I meant to walk to 
Diggleton’s End, to offer to escort me part of 
the Avay thither. And as Clementina seemed 
rather pleased than otherwise that her be- 
trothed should vindicate his reputation for po- 
liteness, so mercilessly assailed by Ilenny, I ac- 
cepted his offer, and we set off together. 

Under other circumstances I might have been 
at a loss what to say to him, but as it was, I 
discoursed of my cousin Clemmy with the pleas- 
ing certainty that I should not weary my hearer. 
He was really fond of her, and informed me in 
strict confidence that he thought she’d be “as 
pleasant as pleasant to get on with” when once 
she was out of her father’s house. “You see, 
miss, her sisters are always on the Avorrit, and it 
tries the temper a bit. I think they’re jealous 
of Clemmy getting married afore ’em!” he 
added, Avith an air of profundity, and looking 
at me Avith his head on one side, as though he 
Avere hazarding some very daring and unex- 
pected conjecture. 

“ Oh,by-the-by, miss,” he said, suddenly, aft- 
er a rather long pause, “ do you knoAv a person 
by the name of FloAver, that says he Avas once 
groom in your family?” 

This unexpected mention of the felloAv’s name 
made my heart sick. But I ansAV'cred that I did 
know such a man, Avho had been groom at Wa- 
ter-Eardley. And I inquired avhy he asked the 
question. 

He ansAvered that FloAver had been for some 
days in the neighborhood trying to obtain a 
situation, and that he had applied to Farmer 
Ilodgekinson among other persons. 


“ Father didn’t seem to see taking the man 
himself — at least mother didn’t like the look 
of him, and father thought the same Avhen 
mother mentioned it — but there’s a person of 
our acquaintance about five-and-thirty miles 
from here that breeds horses for the London 
market, and Ave thought of recommending FIoav- 
er to try Avith him. I suppose he knoAvs his 
business, miss?” 

“I believe so.” 

“Why — 0 Lord, Avhat a clumsy blockhead 
I Avas to be talking to you about — ! You’ve 
gone quite pale. I forgot that I did hear of 
that felloAv Flower being Avith your poor fa- 
ther, miss, Avhen — There, I’m only making it 
Avorse ! I do ask your pardon ; I do, indeed !” 

“There is nothing to pardon. I am sure 
you did not mean to hurt me. I am not sorry 
that you mentioned this man, since I think it 
right to Avarn you on no account to recommend 
him as an inmate of any decent family. He is 
drunken, insolent, and dishonest. He under- 
stands the management of horses, hoAvever, and 
if he Avere employed solely in the stables, he 
might make a A'aluable servant for such a per- 
son as the acquaintance you speak of.” 

“ Nay, / sha’n’t recommend him at all, if 
he’s such as you say, miss. No more Avon’t 
mother on any account. And father’s sure to 
think the same as mother.” 

I changed the subject, Avhich Avas hateful to 
me ; and Ave AA-alked on, peaceably, he chatting 
of Clemmy and I listening, until Ave reached 
the end of Uncle Cudberry’s domain, and he 
Avould have accompanied me further had I not 
forbidden him to do so. I preferred to stroll 
along Avith no other companion than my OAvn 
thoughts. I kncAv every inch of the ground. 
It Avas a pleasant Avalk in the fair, sunny after- 
noon, through a leafy lane that Avound along 
betAveen the fields ; and I Avas going oiiAvard 
peaceably enough, Avhen I saAv the figure of a 
man leaning Avith both elboAvs upon a gate at 
some distance ahead of me. 

Noav in this fact there Avas nothing to startle 
me. Yet I Avas startled. I even stopped for 
a moment quite suddenly ; and I found that 
my pulses Avere greatly quickened, and that I 
Avas breathing short. IIoav absurd ! What 
could there be to fear ? Fear ! no ; it AA^as not 
fear that I felt. I Avas Avithin call of more than 
one cottage. There AA'cre husbandmen Avorking 
in the fields not far off. And, besides, Avhy 
should I fear a peaceable AV'ayfarer taking an 
afternoon stroll, or loitering on his AA^ay to look 
at the landscape ? 

The man Avas dressed like a gentleman. He 
stood quite still, leaning on the gate, until, as I 
supposed, the sound of my approaching foot- 
step caught his ear. Then he turned his head 
and looked at me. A bearded face, Avith hat 
pulled down Ioav upon the broAv. Nothing to 
alarm one in all that ! Yet this time I stopped 
again, nearly suffocated by the beating of my 
heart. 

“Anne! Hn'o you quite forgotten me? It 


160 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


is not so long since we met,” said the stranger, 
in a low voice. 

“ Good Heavens ! Gervase Lacer !” 

» 

CHAPTER LIV. 

.V It was he indeed ! and it was doubtless my 
half-unconscious recognition of him at a dis- 
tance which had so startled me. Now that I 
saw him well, I perceived that he was greatly 
changed. The thick beard disguised his face 
considerably. He was pale — of a leaden, un- 
wholesome hue — and his eyes were sunken and 
restless. He bore himself erect still, in his old 
soldier fashion, but his head drooped forward 
a good deal. I might have passed him with 
no more than that vague, half-unconscious rec- 
ognition I have alluded to, had he not spoken. 
The voice there was no mistaking. No change 
in that. , 

“ What brings you here ? When did you 
come ?” I asked, blurting out the question in 
my surprise and agitation. 

“ You don’t know who I am!” he answered, 
looking at me in a strange way, and putting up 
his hand to his lips — a gesture which, by-the- 
way, he frequently and restlessly repeated dur- 
ing our interview. 

In an instant it flashed upon me. 

“ You are here under a false name !” I ex- 
claimed. 

“I am Mr. Smith,” he answered, very quiet- 
ly, and still looking at me in that strange way. 
“ How did you guess it ?” 

“I — I do not know — I can not tell. Some 
word of description dropped by my grandfather 
made it come into my mind. But — why? 
how ? It is like a wild dream to me !” 

“ You asked me what brought me here,” he 
said (and I could see now that he too was great- 
ly moved, and that his hand shook as he raised 
it to twitch nervously at his mouth and beard). 
“ Yoil brought me here ! If it had not been for 
the hope of seeing you, Anne Furness, I would 
have let the place burn to ashes before I would 
have set eyes on it again !” 

I stood silent, with a heart full of unuttera- 
ble things. 

“ And now I am here — after all that has come 
and gone — you won’t say a word to me. You 
will scarcely look at me.” 

I remained dumb, not because I would not, 
but because I could not speak. Then he broke 
out incoherently, in his old impetuous way — 
with an impetuosity which I now recognized 
to be born of weakness, not strength, and grow- 
ing ever more excited and ungoverned. 

He had lain in wait for me. He had heard 
that I was to be at Woolling that afternoon. 
He had vainly cast about for some other mode 
of seeing me, had feared to risk writing to 
me, and so had resolved on this method. He 
had gone to Mortlands in the hope of catch- 
ing sight of me. His visit had had no other 
motive. He had not feared to meet Dr. Hew- 


son, who had never seen him in the old days, 
and would not suspect that Gervase Lacer 
and Mr. Smith, of City celebrity, were one and, 
the same person. For the rest, he had kept 
out of sight of Horsingham people as far as it 
was possible to do so. But he risked being 
recognized at any moment, and all for my sake !, 
Did I not see, would I not believe and ac- 
knowledge, that his love for me had been true 
and sincere ? “I could not stay away, Anne. 
When first some talk of forming a company to 
work slate quarries here came to my ears the 
idea took possession of me that I might in that 
way have a chance of seeing you again. No 
human being guessed what made me so keen 
to come here,” he said, speaking in a quiet, 
disjointed way, and looking at me — not steadi- 
ly, but with short, eager, restless glances. 

I clasped my hands together sorrowfully. “ I 
wish — oh, how I wish! — that you had not 
come,” I exclaimed. 

That hurt him terribly. I was sorry for him, 
and should have been yet more sorry had I not 
instinctively been aware that it was his vanity, 
fully as much or more than his feelings, which 
was wounded. 

“You are as hard-hearted as ever,” he ex- 
claimed, angrily. -“A mere block of ice! I 
wonder I don’t cease — have not long ago ceased 
— to care for so unfeeling a woman.” 

I made no retort, no defense even. I was 
sorry for him. Then in a moment his mood 
changed, and he asked my pardon even with 
tears in his eyes. I was pained by the whole 
scene. I could not properly collect my thoughts, 
and I felt but one strong impulse — to be gone, 
and be alone for a little while. But he so im- 
plored me to remain yet an instant, and yet 
another instant when that was gone, and began 
telling me in so earnest though confused a 
way of all the vicissitudes he had gone through 
since we had parted, that I stood irresolutely 
listening to him. 

So confused was his story that much of it 
was unintelligible to me. It was long, too, and 
vague and rambling. But I will condense the 
main points of it, which I was able to seize 
upon, as well as I cani 

Soon after he had left Horsingham his father 
had died, leaving the bulk of his money to 
Gervase’s step-mother. Some small sum, how- 
ever, had come to the son, and with this he had 
speculated in a reckless way. He (Gervase) 
liad a friend — an old school-fellow, I believe 
he said — who was a rising man of business in 
the City, a stock-broker. From this man — on 
whom, as I gathered, he had once rather loft- 
ily looked down — he had received advice and 
substantial kindness. The reckless specula- 
tions turned out luckily ; the stock-broking 
friend put him in the way of making other 
speculations, not reckless. Gervase quickly 
became initiated into the arcana of such money- 
gambling. He was superior in manner to most 
of his new associates. “A gentleman, you 
know. It gives me some advantages!” and 


ANNE FURNESS. 


IGl 


made Ins way with unexpected rapidity. He 
quickly found that a solid basis of capital was 
little needful — if at all needful — for success. 
“Dash,’^ intelligence, a quick eye for the signs 
of the times — these qualities, he declared, to- 
gether with boldness, had been the secret of 
his rise in the world. He had risen, he consid- 
ered, and was still rising. Such a career was 
not unexampled. He had assumed a common 
name in order elfectually to cut Idmself adrift 
from the past and all that tied him to it. 

Such was Gervase Lacer’s story in the chief 
points of the narration. I omit the strain of 
boastfulness that ran through it — a boastfulness 
mingled, too, with self-distrust, and something 
like shame. Nay, perhaps it was shame trying 
to hide herself which had assumed boastful- 
ness as a cloak ! 

Then he broke into a different strain. 

He protested to me that he had never for- 
gotten me, never ceased for one day to think 
of me and feel for me and love me in all the 
terrible sorrow which came upon us, and of 
Avhich he heard in a distant and indirect man- 
ner. He said that Avhen the first gleam of 
good fortune had begun to shine upon him he 
was spurred on to pursue it eagerly by the 
thought of me. “See, Anne,” he said, “you 
have been the one good thing in my life. You 
made me believe goodness to be possible — I 
had got to doubt it. My life has been very 
hard, and has taught me hard things. Oh, if 
it had all gone smoothly — if you could have 
been kinder to me, and given me a real hope to 
go upon — how different — But I won’t look 
back. It’s a dreary prospect. Anne, can’t 
you throw me one word of encouragement ? I 
know you don’t care for riches, but I may be 
rich some day. I ivill be rich if you speak the 
word. And your mother — if you tell her how 
I have struggled, and what prospects I have, 
she will see ; she will recognize that I am true 
in this, at least. I would devote myself to 
her. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to win 
her good opinion. I have acted wrongly on 
many points — you must remember what I told 
you of my early days — but on this, as true as 
there’s a Heaven above us, I am in earnest. 
Look, Anne, look here !” fumbling with an un- 
steady, impatient hand in his breast; “see 
how I have treasured this ! It has not pai'ted 
from me night or day since I left you. It’s a 
little thing, but it shows how constant my feel- 
ing has been.” 

He pulled out a little flat leather case, more 
like a miniature port-folio than a pocket-book, 
and, half opening it, gave me a glimpse of a 
folded letter, which I recognized as being in my 
handwriting. 

“A letter of mine! You must restore that 
to me !” I cried, hastily. “ You have no right 
to keep it.” 

“ No right ! No right to keep a letter ad- 
dressed to myself ? What do you fear, Anne ? 
There is no word in this letter which you need 
be ashamed of.” 


“Ashamed!” I echoed, drawing myself up 
and looking full at him, for the word had an- 
gered me. “I never wrote a letter in my life 
which I need be ashamed of.” 

“Then do you suspect I should make any 
ill use of your letter? You can not suspect 
that ?” 

“ No ; I do not think you would ; I hope — 
I believe — ^you would not. But if I did sus- 
pect you, my suspicion would not be altogether 
so groundless as you seem to assume.” 

He changed color, and recoiled a step. 
“What do you mean?” he asked, almost 
roughly. 

“ You have been, at least, imprudent, and 
have spoken as you should not. I have reason 
to know it,” said I, thinking for the moment 
of Flower and his insolent sneers to my mo- 
ther. “But I do not wish to recriminate or to 
accuse you. Pray — I ask it as a favor — restore 
me my letter. Is it the only one of mine in 
your possession ? So far as I remember, I only 
wrote to you twice in my life.” 

“ Only twice, Anne. And this is the only 
scrap of your dear handwriting that I possess. 
How can you ask me to part with it ?” This 
time his tone was soft and sad, and he looked 
at me as though hesitating whether to comply 
or not. 

“And the other note,” I said, struck by a 
sudden idea, “ what became of it?” 

“ I can’t tell. Lost, or perhaps stolen from 
me.” 

“ Stolen ? Who should steal so worthless a 
thing?” 

“How can I say? I am a careless fellow. 
When I left this place I left many papers be- 
hind me.” 

“ Could Flower, our groom, ever have had 
access to them ?” 

“It is possible. He came about my place 
more than once. But why do you ask?” 

“No matter. Will you give me back that 
letter ? Will you, at least, let me look at it ?” 

He half advanced his hand, and then paused 
and withdrew it. 

“If you will say one kind word to me, 
Anne — if you will tell me that you do not hate 
me outright.” 

“ Indeed I do not hate you ! But you have 
acted so wrongly. I can not help saying so. 
Why did you leave Horsingham clandestinely? 
Why, when things began to go better with you, 
did you not strive to repay the money you 
owed here? You have been so ill spoken of 
in consequence ! And the worst is — not un- 
justly.” 

“Do you care for it?” he asked, with sud- 
den eagerness. “Does it matter in the least 
to you ? If I thought so — if I had the least 
hope of it — I vnll pay what debts I have 
here, of course. I always intended to do so. 
But they are leeches, these Horsingham peo- 
ple. They suck the very blood of you. Ex- 
tortionate, greedy — Why, if they got one- 
1 fifth of their charges they would be well paid ! 


L 


1C2 


ANNE FURNESS. 


However, if you will say a kind word to me, 
Anne, I will do any thing!” 

He stretched his hand out to take mine with 
such vehemence that I recoiled, startled for the 
instant. 

“No! I can not understand such condi- 
tions. If you are not willing to do right for 
its own sake, is it possible that I should ask 
you to do it for mine?” 

“You are so proud — so icy! You refuse 
even to give me your hand!” 

In truth, I could not give it to him. The 
feeling he still professed for me rendered that 
impossible. I felt that he would not accept it 
as a mere act of forgiveness — a mere symbol 
of farewell without rancor on my part. At 
the same time, I had real compassion for him 
in my heart. Involuntarily I compared the 
blessedness of my lot in being Donald’s prom- 
ised wife with this man’s loneliness and dis- 
content. He was unhappy. That I could not 
doubt. 

“I would earnestly advise you to leave this 
place,” said I. “The more I think of it, the 
more I wonder that you should have risked 
coming here under a feigned name. You have 
made many enemies in Horsingham.” 

“I know it,” he answered, bitterly. “But 
the feeling which brought me here was stron- 
ger than prudence, although you seem unable 
to understand that!” Then he added, in a 
different tone, “You can betray me if you 
choose. I dare say some of your virtuous 
friends would advise you to do so.” 

“Betray you!” 

“ Yes ; it is always your -superexcellent peo- 
ple who hate to give a poor devil a chance. 
And ‘of course it’s your duty to expose an 
impostor!’ ” 

He looked at me curiously as he said this, 
almost as though asking a question. 

“If it were clear to me that such was my 
duty, I should try to do it,” I answered, with 
as much firmness as I could muster. 

“Do as you will, Anne; I have trusted 
you.” 

Had he tried to extort any promise of se- 
crecy from me, I should have refused to give 
it. But his last words constituted a powerful 
appeal to my nature. 

“ You know that I shall not betray you,” I 
exclaimed, impulsively. 

“You have said it, Anne.” 

“I have said it — if that were needful.” 

“ There is no one like you in all the world ! 
And yet — and yet just now you refused to give 
me your hand ! ” 

“If it will give you any comfort to know 
that I part from you without ill-will — that for 
the sake of old times I wish you well, and de- 
sire that you may use your present opportuni- 
ties for your real and lasting good — I can say 
that much sincerely.” 

“Nothing more?” 

I looked at him, and slowly shook my head. 

“Anne” (bringing out the words with a 


kind of desperation, and pressing his hands 
strongly together as he spoke), “will you give 
me a hope — I don’t care how distant — that you 
could ever bring yourself to marry me ?” 

“ Oh! — never !” 

“Anne — think once more ! No one can love 
you as I love you. Whatever I may be, or 
however unworthy of you, I am sure of that. 
It would be the saving of me. I should never 
have gone so far wrong if I had had the hope 
of winning you long ago. But when I left 
Water-Eardley I was desperate — I cared for 
nothing — I was ready to — Well, I -won’t 
think of that again. I will look forward. I 
will try. I will be a changed man. Only 
give me, not a promise — I don’t ask for a 
promise — but a ray of hope.” 

He caught my cloak and detained me as I 
was moving away. 

“Never! It is impossible. Let me go; 
you distress me beyond measure. ” 

“Anne, is that your last word ?” 

“My last word, now and always. This is 
madness. Let*me go, I insist !” 

“ One question ! Are you engaged ? Only 
the other day I heard that that Ayrlie was at 
your grandfather’s, curse him ! I hoped he 
had been gone long ago — to India or to the 
devil!” 

“I shall ansAver nothing more. If you dare 
to detain me another moment I shall call to 
those laborers, and you will repent having driv- 
en me to do that.” 

He released me, but stood directly in my 
patliAvay with folded arms, looking at me in 
so wild and savage a manner that I Avas really 
alarmed, though indignation made me preserve 
an unflinching front. 

“Well,” said GerAmse at length, in a Ioav, 
threatening tone, “since you refuse to ansAver, 
I knoAV Avhat to believe. Your letter? No! 
You shall never have your letter. And as to 
him — let him keep out of my Avay if he can. 
Whatever happens, it is all on your head.” 

I brushed resolutely past him Avithout an- 
other Avord, and pushed on doAvn the lane at a 
steady, rapid pace, not once looking behind me 
until I came to a turn about a quarter of a mile 
distant. Then I stopped and cautiously glanced 
round. The lane was quite deserted — no hu- 
man being in sight. I had passed the path- 
AA'ay that led to Dodd’s house. And, indeed, 
I had resolved that I would not go there. I 
could not at that moment have endured Alice’s 
sharp eyes and Amluble tongue. I Avas panting 
and trembling like a hunted creature; albeit 
not Avith fear, or not all Avith fear. I sat doAvn 
on a green knoll beneath a hedge-row tree 
and buried my throbbing head in my hands. 


CHAPTER LV. 

I AVAS roused by hearing footsteps coming 
along the road tOAvard me. For an instant the 
dread came over me that it might be Lacer re- 


ANNE FURNESS. 


1G3 


turning. I looked up resolutely, but was re- 
assured by a glimpse I had of a man’s figure 
very different from bis — much shorter and 
slighter — walking briskly along. I rose and 
moved confusedly on in the direction toward 
Ilorsingham without again looking round. 

When I began to walk I found my limbs 
tremble under me, and my head was hot and 
aching. But I went on. 

The approaching person soon overtook me, 
and spoke to me by name — “Miss Furness! 
Miss Anne !” 

It was Dodd. lie looked more surprised to 
find me than I thought he need have done, see- 
ing that I was still so near to my uncle Cud- 
berry’s house, and that I Avas accustomed to 
walk out in solitary independence. 

But his next Avords explained his surprise, 
and made me turn hot and then cold. 

“ Why, it is you. Miss Anne ! I Avasn’t sure 
Avhen I first saAvyou talking to that Mr. Smith.” 

“ I Avas coming from Woolling — I have been 
at my uncle’s,” I stammered out, scarcely knoAv- 
ing Avhat I Avas saying. The consciousness that 
my manner must appear strange and -confused 
increased my confusion almost to agony, al- 
though I doubtless appeared more self-possess- 
ed than I Avas in reality. 

“I had heerd that this chap Avent to see the 
doctor — your grandfather, miss — but I didn’t 
'knoAv as you kncAv him too,” pursued Dodd, 
casting an inquisitive side glance at me as he 
spoke. I suppose my face startled him, for he 
cried, “How white you are, Miss Anne! 
Ain’t you Avell ?” 

“I have a racking headache, and feel very 
Aveak,” I ansAvered. 

“ Lord bless ye, miss, come along back Avi’ 
me to the Royal Oak -and rest ye, and let my 
missis get you something. Do, noAV !” 

“ No ; no, thank you, Dodd ; I Avould rather 
go home.” 

“But you shall driA'e home, miss, Avhen 
you’ve rested a bit. I’m sure you ought never 
to think of Avalking Avi’ your head so bad !” 

But I Avas obdurate. I aa'us resol A’ed to go 
home at once ; and Dodd, finding me so, ceased 
to importune me. He asked leave to Avalk Avith 
me as far as the end of the lane, as he Avas go- 
ing in that direction. “Not but it’s safe 
enough hereabouts, as ever I heerd on,” he 
added. “There Avouldn’t be any fear of a 
lady getting annoyed if she happened to be 
Avalking by herself. No tramps nor raga- 
muffins frequents this lane.” 

Then, after a momentary pause, and another 
curious glance at me, he said, “ Though, to be 
sure, it isn’t always the raggedest chaps as are 
the biggest rascals.” 

I made an effort to answer unconcernedly. 
“ Oh, I iieA'er feel alarmed in this neighborhood, 
Dodd. I have knoAvn every road and lane and 
meadoAv in it from a child ; and all the cot- 
tagers too. I am at home here. ” 

“ Ah, but there’s a good many more strangers 
about than there used to be.” 


I Avas silent. 

“ There’s that gent you Avas talking to, miss; 
he’s a stranger,” continued Dodd. He had ap- 
proached the subject circuitously, Avhich con- 
vinced me that he Avas puzzled and vaguely 
suspicious. It Avas not out of the range of a 
Horsingham imagination that my grandfather 
and I should have mercenary reasons for keep- 
ing our acquaintance Avith ‘ ‘ IMr. Smith” pri- 
vate. And yet to one Avho kneAV my grand- 
father as Avell as Dodd kncAV him it surely must 
appear in the highest degree improbable that 
he should scheme to obtain any peculiar privi- 
leges by means of the chief personage in a com- 
pany of speculators ! 

But Avhatever it AA^as that Dodd surmised, I 
could ask for no explanation from him. I Avalk- 
ed on silently, and suffering in mind and body. 
I parted from Dodd at the end of the lane, and 
reached home Avithout further adventure. 

My headache furnished a real and sufficient 
excuse for going at once to my OAvn room ; as 
also for my having returned Avithout visiting 
Alice Dodd, as I had meant to do. 

Donald and my grandfather had not come 
back from their country expedition. They had 
gone chiefly to look at a horse Avhich Donald 
thought of buying; “and,” said my mother, 
“ it is a great pity you Avere not able to go to 
Alice’s house, for your grandfather said that 
their errand Avould take him and Donald into 
the neighborhood of Diggleton’s End. And 
you might have come home all together.” 

I felt very miserable as I lay Avith closed eyes 
on my bed, revolving painfully in my mind the 
unexpected incident of my meeting Avith Lacer. 
My mother had left me to myself, under the 
impression that I might get some sleep. But 
sleep Avas far from my aching brain. 

Would Gervase Lacer leave Horsingham, as 
I had urged him to do? Was I not bound by 
my promise “not to betray him” to keep his 
presence here a secret CA’en from Donald ? If 
Lacer Avere once aAvay, I could tell Donald every 
thing. At the bottom of my heart there Avas a 
great dread of these tAvo men being brought 
into contact with each other. 

I remained in my room during the remainder 
of that evening. I AA^as, in truth, suffering A'ery 
severely from headache. I heard the sound of 
my grandfather’s voice, loud, and hearty, Avhen 
he returned about seven o’clock, Avhile my 
room Avas still light, iiotAvithstanding that mo- 
ther had taken the precaution of drawing the 
Avhite curtains across the AvindoAv. Then there 
Avas a hush in the house. Donald and grand- 
father had been told that I Avas uiiAvell, and 
Avould not disturb me. Once I heard my grand- 
father’s chamber door open and shut softly, and 
his footstep, very light and cautious, on the 
stair. Finally, after it had long been as near 
dark as it Avas to be dll the summer night, I fell 
asleep, and slept soundly. 

“ Mr. Donald’s dear love, miss, and he hopes 
you have rested Avell and are better.” 

These Avords Avere the first I heard next 


ANNE FURNESS. 


IGl 

morning, and Eliza stood by my bedside with a 
little note in her hand. The note was from 
Donald, and contained the following words : 

“Dearest, — I am obliged to go away early 
without waiting to see you. A strange thing 
has happened, of which I must speak to you 
this afternoon when Ave meet. Be well, dar- 
ling, Avhen I come back. I grieved so for your 
headache! Your own, D. A.” 

What was the “ strange thing” that had hap- 
pened I had no chance of learning from any 
one at Mortlands until Donald’s return, for my 
grandfather was away also, whether with Don- 
ald or on other business of his own he had not 
stated. 

I was tormented all the morning by conjec- 
tures and apprehensions lest the “strange thing” 
Avhich Donald had to tell me should prove to 
have reference to Gervase Lacer. But about 
mid-day a diversion was forcibly given to my 
thoughts by a visit from Tilly Cudberry. She 
had not bestowed much notice on the inmates 
of Mortlands since leaving it for the house of 
her neAV friends, Mr. and Mrs. Nixon. How- 
ever, on this day she appeared among us in 
quite an excited state ; and before uttering any 
of the usual greetings she exclaimed, looking 
round upon my mother, Mrs. Abram, and me, 
as Ave sat in the parlor, “ The Nixons got theirs 
this morning ! Have you had yours yet?” 

Poor Judith edged up a little nearer to me 
and murmured, hiintly, “Got Avhat ? Anne, 
is it any thing catching, love ?” 

^ Third daughter!’ I hope it’s marked 
enough ! Why publish that to the parish ? I 
should have thought ‘daughter’ AA’ould have 
been quite sufficient myself. But third daugh- 
ter! — I never knew any thing so marked in all 
my life !” 

At this enigmatical utterance Mrs. Abram’s 
bcAvilderment Avas so complete that she looked 
absolutely scared. I hastened to relieve her 
mind by saying : 

“You are speaking of the cards of invitation 
to Clementina’s wedding, are you not, Tilly? 
Yes; ours came this morning.” 

“This day fortnight. Ha! Very AA^ell — 
very Avell!” (This Avith a nod of the head full 
of mysterious meaning.) “Mrs. Nixon means 
to Avear a sky-blue moire; and if silk velvet 
Avas suitable to the time of year there’s no rea- 
son on earth Avhy she shouldn’t have that. 
Money is no object. I have no doubt that 
Mrs. Ilodgekinson Avill bedizen herself at a fine 
rate on the occasion ; but Mrs. Nixon can cut 
out Mrs. Ilodgekinson, I should hope ! A sky- 
blue moire, and corn floAvers in her bonnet. 
Such is her present intention. But I beg you 
not to mention it to any of the Woolling peo- 
ple, for they Avould be quite capable of taking a 
mean advantage, and telling Mrs. Hodgekin- 
son. And then nothing Avould prevent that 
Avoman from Avearing sky-blue and corn flow- 
ers herself!” 

“And you, Tilly,” said my mother, Avilling 


to diA’ert the Avrath Avhich the mention of Mrs. 
Ilodgekinson always excited in our fair cousin’s 
breast, “ Avhat do you mean to AA^ear on the great 
occasion? You and Henrietta are to be bride- 
maids, of course ?” 

Tilly’s face Avas a study, and, I confess, an 
utterly inscrutable one to me, as, druAving her- 
self up Avith a jerk, she made ansAver : 

“ Bridemaids ? Of course — oh, of course ! 
At the Avedding of pa’s thml daughter! No 
doubt. And as to Avearing — Avhat does it mat- 
ter Avhat I Avear! Miss Cudberry of Woolling 
used to be considered rather a feature in her 
OAvn house, Mrs. George, so I don’t Avonder at 
your thinking she Avould be so still ; but you’re 
sadly behind the times, I can assure you. We 
have altered all that. The feature at Woolling 
is pa’s third daughter, not Miss Cudberry. Oh 
dear, no !” 

To this speech there Avas no reply to be 
made — at least none of a peaceable and concil- 
iatory nature. But fortunately our silence had 
no depressing effect on Tilly. She aa'us in a 
state of surprising high spirits. I say “sur- 
prising,” because it was but a short time ago 
that any reference to her sister’s approaching 
marriage, and to Avhat she Avas pleased to term 
“ Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son’s disgraceful treach- 
ery” to herself, Avould have sufficed to make her 
assume an air of gloomy grandeur, as of one in- 
jured past redress. But now, although bitter 
and scornful, she AA'as certainly not gloomy. 
Indeed, she chattered on at so unmerciful a 
rate, A\'as so viA'acious and discursive, treated 
us to so many anecdotes of her friends the 
Nixons (not entirely exempting them, hoAveA'er, 
from ridicule and censure ; she Avas too true a 
Cudberry at heart to spare any one altogether), 
that Judith fairly closed her eyes and gave a 
little groan, under the painful effort of trying to 
folloAV the vagaries of Tilly’s erratic discourse. 
Mother and I listened quietly, occasionally ex- 
changing a glance of amazement, and once or 
tAvice a faint smile flitted across mother’s flice. 
Smiles Avere so rare there noAv that 1 felt almost 
grateful to Tilly for having called them up. 

At length Tilly rose to go aAvay. And haA'- 
ing said “good-by” graciously to me, and Avith 
pitying patronage to Mrs. Abram, she approach- 
ed my mother’s sofa, and, after an instant’s hes- 
itation, bent doAvn and kissed her. 

“ G'oocZ-by, Mrs. George,” she said, in a tone 
that Avas almost soft for her. Then she added, 
rather more debonairly, “I dare say it may be 
some time before I see you again.” 

“ Why so, Tilly ? Are you going to eut us 
altogether ?” I asked, laughingly. 

Tilly ansAvered as though my mother had 
spoken. “No, Mrs. George; 7 ain’t going to 
cut you. If there is to be any cutting it Avon’t 
come from me — at least as far as the Mort- 
lands people are concerned. As to the Wool- 
ling people, eircumstances must AvhoUy determ- 
ine. The Woolling people must take their 
chance. I have sacrificed myself quite enough 
already for the Woolling people,” 


AKNE FURNESS. 


1G5 



And with this mysterious speech she took her 
departui’e. 

“I don’t understand Tilly to-day at all,” 
said my mother. 

“ Oh, don't you ?” cried Mrs. Abram, huski- 
ly, and clasping her hands with fervor. “ I am 
so glad !” 

“For goodness’ sake, why should you he glad 
of that, my dear Judith ?” asked my mother. 

“ Oh, because — because I began to be afraid, 
dear, that not understanding her was all the 
tault of my poor brain. It is not so clear, at 
times, as it should be, I am aware. And do 
you know, Lucy — I don’t know whether it has 
ever happened to you or to Anne — but really 
and truly, when Miss Cudberry is talking, I 
very often don’t know whether it’s inside my 
own head or outside ! It’s a very curious sensa- 
tion, and I dare say cleverer persons than I am 
may not feel it. But with me, I assure you 
that when I have been listening to Miss Cud- 
berry for a little while there comes a great 
buzzing in my ears, and my head swims, and I 
don’t understand one syllable she is saying. I 
suppose,” added poor Judith, with a plaintive 
sigh, “it’s his doing.” 

It was close upon our dinner-hour, and we 
Avere still discussing Tilly’s neAvly developed 
emancipation from the family traditions, when 
grandfather came home alone. Donald, he 
said, had sent word that he should be detained 
in the country, and might not be home until 
quite evening. Already, for a long time, Don- 
ald had taken on himself the more laborious 
part of grandfather’s practice — nearly all that 
lay among the very poor patients, for example, 
whom he gratuitously attended. It Avas, there- 
fore, a not infrequent occurrence for Donald to 
be absent during a great part of the day, and 
my mother and Mrs. Abram took it as a matter 
of course. For my OAvn OAvn part, I could not 
help Avondering Avhether Donald’s prolonged ab- 
sence might not be connected Avith the happen- 
ing of the “ strange thing” to Avhich he had al- 
luded in his note, and Avhether grandfather 
kneAV it, and Avhat it Avas. I could not help, 
moreover, watching grandfather’s countenance, 
and I thought I detected on it a certain amount 
of preoccupation. 

HoAvever, my own Avas, in truth, the only 
anxious face at table. Mother Avas cheerful in 
her quiet Avay, and made me repeat all Tilly 
Cudberry’s old sayings and doings for grand- 
father’s amusement. He listened and laughed, 
and exclaimed at intervals, “ What an incred- 
ible Avoman! What a stupendous Avoman!” 
And Avhen poor Mrs. Abram — Avith a lugubri- 
ous reference to “ /ns ” adverse influence — dole- 
fully related the mysterious experience she un- 
dei'Avent during a long spell of Miss Cudberry’s 
eloquence, and especially dAvelt on her painful 
uncertainty as to Avhether the talking Avere out- 
side or inside her OAvn head, grandfather im- 
mensely gratified and relieA'ed her by saying, 
“My dear Judith, you are quite right. You 
have aptly described a sensation Avhich Miss 


Cudberry’s conversation has frequently pro- 
duced in myself — only I have never been able 
to express it.” 

After dinner Mrs. Abram retired to her 
room ; mother had some shaAvls and cushions 
carried into the garden, and composed herself 
on a rustic bench Avith a book in her hand, and 
grandfather sat in his great chair, and closed 
his eyes for his customary after-dinner sleep. 
Grandflxther Avas very old now, and needed rest. 
I Avas painfully restless and ill at ease. I wan- 
dered about the shrubbery, or seated myself in 
the shadoAv of a tree, only to rise and Avalk 
about again after a minute or two. At length 
in my restless pacings to and fro I came to the 
glass door of the dining-room, which stood open 
to admit the sweet summer air, and as I paused, 
looking in, grandfather’s eyes unclosed and met 
mine, and he beckoned me A\dth his hand. 

“Grandfather,” said I, advancing to him, 
“ do you knoAv Avhat the ‘ strange thing’ is 
Avhich Donald tells me has happened ?” 

“Why,” he ansAvered Avith a faint smile that 
just flitted across his face and Avas gone, “I 
think I do knoAV. But it’s a secret !” 

“It is nothing painful — nothing that grieves 
you or Donald, is it ?” I asked, a good deal re- 
lieved by his manner. 

“Not at all ! not at all ! I never kneAv you 
curious before, little Nancy.” He looked at 
me more searchingly than he had hitherto done, 
and then added, in a graver tone : “ It is a queer 
business, and may turn out to be all a fond im- 
agination on the part of Dodd ; but in any case 
it is best not to speak of it incautiously. I had 
special reasons for saying no Avord on the sub- 
ject before your dear mother, for it would have 
touched upon the time of her great soitoav, and 
Ave can not be too careful not to set that chord 
quivering.” 

It Avas, indeed, no OA'erstrained precaution on 
our part to avoid the least allusion — or, at all 
events, the least sudden allusion — to that dread- 
ful period in mother’s presence. A careless 
Avord might at any time have brought back the 
hysterical conA’ulsions Avhich had so prostrated 
her strength. 

“Then,” said I, “this ‘strange thing’ has 
reference in some AA'ay to — ” 

“To that time— to that time, little Nancy. 
Don’t look so distressed, my child. It is no- 
thing Avith which our feelings are much concern- 
ed, after all.” 

He bent doAvn to caress the dog that lay at 
his feet, and said, as he played Avith the animal 
and stroked it, “Noav you knoAv, little Nancy, 
hoAV certain people scolded me, and lectured 
me, and strove to shoAV me the error of my 
Avays, Avhen I professed to have my suspicions 
of the precious ‘ Company’ and the precious 
‘ City gentleman’ at the head of it ! Well, Avait 
a Avhile ! wait a Avhile ! Suppose it should turn 
out that this Mr. Smith— My child, Avhat is 
the matter?” 

He had been talking on cheerfully, and in a 
I half-bantering tone, still stroking the dog ; but 


IGG 


ANNE FURNESS. 


on lifting his eyes to my face his tone changed, 
and as he took my hand his own hand trembled. 

“ Will they meet?” I cried. “ Will Donald 
come in contact with this man?” Then in a 
moment I was breathlessly pouring out the story 
of my interview with Gervase Lacer. I told 
him every thing — Lacer’s profession of repent- 
ance and his promises of amendment ; then his 
jealousy and anger against Donald ; and final- 
ly my promise not to betray him, if he would 
leave our neighborhood and seek to molest me 
no more. It had seemed so unlikely that Don- 
ald should cross his path in any way that I 
had hoped Lacer might depart without seeing 
him. But now an unforeseen circumstance 
appeared to threaten the evil I so dreaded. 
Grandfather turned on me a face of wonder, 
but he did not interrupt me by a single word. 
When I had finished he said, smoothing my 
hand reassuringly: 

“No, no; no, no, my child; don’t fear for 
Donald. The scoundrel’s threats make no im- 
pression on me. Such rascals don’t talk of it 
beforehand when they mean mischief. It was 
all said to frighten you. What a despicable 
villain it is !” He uttered tl^p last exclamation 
with sudden heat and violence. He had been 
speaking before in a pondering tone, with his 
head bent down. 

But I Avas far from feeling reassured. 

“ Oh,” I cried, “ I would give the world that 
Gervase Lacer were fairly away from this place ! 
I can not breathe freely Avhile he is lingering 
here. And for mother’s sake, too — ” 

Grandfather suddenly rose up from his chair 
with more vigor of movement than I had seen 
in him for many a day, and rang so peremptory 
a peal at the bell as brought Eliza to the din- 
ing-room door much quicker than was her wont. 
He then ordered that the pony should be har- 
nessed, and the groom told to make ready to 
accompany his master at once. His orders 
were habitually obeyed Avith promptitude, but 
on this occasion an unusual degree of speed 
Avas infused into the groom’s movements. 

“ What Avill you say to me if I can get rid of 
this felloAV at once? Get rid of him so that he 
shall never more trouble Horsingham ? I be- 
lieve there is a Avay!” said my grandfather. 
And then Avithout Avaiting for a reply, he hur- 
ried into the hall, Avhere he stood impatiently 
pulling on his driving gloves. 

The chaise Avas brought round so quickly that 
I had scarcely had time to ask any questions be- 
fore grandfather stepped into the little vehicle. 
In reply to my hurried word or tAvo of inquiry 
he merely said : “I believe there is a Avay, little 
Nancy. Tell your mother I am gone on busi- 
ness. When Donald comes back — if he re- 
turns before I do — say the same to him, and 
ask him to aAvait my return for an explanation. 
Let no one be uneasy if I am late. God bless 
thee, child; good-by!” 

I heard him say to the groom, “Take the 
nearest Avay to Market Diggleton and then 
the chaise rolled aAvay. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

It grew overcast and began to rain. I could 
not go into the garden. I Avas so nervous and 
miserable as I sat Avith my mother and Mrs. 
Abram in the long dining-room — mother al- 
ways preferred that room in summer, because 
it opened on to the garden — that I feared they 
would obseiwe it. As it greAv later mother 
said, once or tAvice : 

“ I Avonder Avhat can keep your grandfather 
so long! I hope he is not overtiring him- 
self.” 

I told her that he had warned us not to be 
uneasy if he Avere late. 

“Perhaps he has gone over to Woolling,” 
she said. “Eliza tells me that he ordered the 
man to driA^e to Market Diggleton. That is 
not so very far from your uncle Cudberry’s 
house. I should not Avonder at all if he Avere 
there. I’m sorry it has turned out such a bad 
night. Perhaps Mrs. Cudberry may send him 
home in their covered vehicle. He would get 
Avet through in the chaise.” 

She had no apprehension that there Avas any 
thing amiss. 

Nine o’clock came ; half past nine ; ten ; and 
yet neither Donald nor my grandfather ap- 
peared. Judith set herself to conjure up a 
variety of evils Avhich might have overtaken 
them. . Perhaps the chaise had been upset. 
Perhaps the pony had broken his leg. Per- 
haps grandfather had been taken ill. Perhaps 
Mr. Cudberry’s house Avas being burned doAvii, 
and Donald and the doctor Avere remaining to 
assist in putting out the confiagration ! 

“There aauII be no lack of water, at all 
events, Judith,” said my mother. “Hark! 
hoAv the rain is beating on the AvindoAvs ! But 
pray don’t exercise your imagination any more. 
You make one nervous. If any thing Avere 
wrong Ave should soon knoAV it. Ill neAvs trav- 
els apace.” 

There came a loud ring at the hall door, 
Avhich startled us all. It proved to be the 
groom, AA’ho appeared at the door of the din- 
ing-room, dripping Avet, Avith a note in his hand. 
It contained a feAv lines in pencil addressed by 
my grandfather to me, to the effect that Don- 
ald and grandfather Avere together, and quite 
safe and Avell ; but that there had been an ac- 
cident, and their medical assistance AA’as need- 
ed. They might not return all night. Don- 
ald added a Avord or tAvo : “Pray go to rest, 
darling, and make your mother and Mrs. Abram 
do the same.” 

I Avent into the kitchen to cross-question the 
groom. He had been particularly cautioned, 
he said, not to frighten Mrs. Furness. But he 
Avas to tell me that a gentleman had been found 
in Diggleton Wood robbed, and badly hurt, 
and been carried into the Royal Oak inn, Avhich 
Avas the nearest house, and the doctor and Mr. 
Ayrlie Averc attending him. It Avas one of 
them London gentlemen Avho had been staying 
at Market Diggleton. He Avas an aAvfully rich 


ANNE FURNESS. 


1G7 


gentleman, they did say, and all sorts of tales 
were going about as to how much money he 
had been robbed of. The thief hadn’t been 
caught yet. But the police were after him. 
The groom was greatly excited, and would 
htive held forth all night if I would have re- 
mained to listen to him. But I left him to re- 
gale the ears of the other servants with the un- 
wonted feast of news he had brought home with 
him, and returned to urge my mother to go to 
bed. 

“I knew it!” exclaimed Judith, solemnly. 
“Didn’t I say there had been some accident? 
I’ve been feeling it in my bones all the even- 
ing!” 

I told mother the groom’s story with as much 
steadiness and composure as I could muster, 
and begged her to go quietly to bed. 

It was more difficult to persuade Judith to 
do so. But at length she consented. The 
man was to sit up for his master. All the 
household was in a state of nervous excitement ; 
but fortunately I could depend on Eliza to be 
steady and quiet with my mother, and not to 
weary her Avith wordy conjectures, and the 
repetition of all the rumors which seemed to 
be springing up magically in the very midst of 
our quiet household. For, by dint of talking 
the matter over among themselves, the servants 
had arrived at an extraordinary degree of cir- 
cumstantiality in the narrative before the house 
was hushed for the night. 

By an early hour next morning the news 
had spread all over Horsingham. Retired as 
were our house and our ways of life, fifty dif- 
ferent rumors penetrated to us. It seemed as 
if they were carried in the air. I had passed 
a sleepless night, and arose soon after it was 
light to Avatch for grandfather’s return. Mo- 
ther was still sleeping, AAffien at length I heard 
the sound of Avheels, and ran out trembling and 
eager. 

Grandfather Avas alone. But a glance at his 
face shoAved me that there Avas nothing to fear 
for Donald. He AvaA^ed his hand encoura- 
gingly as soon as he saAv me. He Avas in a ve- 
hicle Avhich I recognized as belonging to the 
Royal Oak, and Avas driven by Dodd’s hostler. 

What folloAvs was narrated to me by my 
grandfather, and I give it as nearly as possible 
in his OAvn words. 

“I droA'e,” he said, “to the inn at Market 
Diggleton. It Avas growing dusk when I 
reached it, and was darker than usual at that 
hour, by reason of the sky being overcast with 
clouds. On demanding to speak Avith ‘Mr. 
Smith,’ I was told he was out. I was pre- 
pared to be told so, and said to the Avaiter that 
I kneAV Mr. Smith denied himself to most peo- 
ple, but that my business Avas urgent, and I 
posith'ely must see him. I Avould take no re- 
fusal. The man kneAV me, and assured me 
that he Avas not deceiving me. ‘ Mr. Smith 

went to W this morning, Sir,’ he said. 

‘He may be back to-night, or he may not. I 
can’t say. If you don’t believe me, you can 


go and look in his rooms.’ He threw open the 
door, first of a sitting-room, and then of a bed- 
room, and I saAv that they Avere empty. I 
asked, if Mr. Smith came back that night, at 
Avhat hour he Avould do so, and was told at 
about eight. A coach that plied between 

W and Horsingham Avould bring him to 

within a mile of Market Diggleton, and he 
Avould then Avalk to the inn. 

“I Avas noAv rather at a loss what to do. 
After a little deliberation I resolved to go to 
Dodd’s house, and endeavor to speak Avith him. 
He Avas Avithin, and he and his good Avife gave 
me a hearty Avelcome. He had been expect- 
ing to see Mr. Arylie, he said. Mr. Ayrlie 
had promised to look in at the Royal Oak that 
afternoon, as he Avould be visiting some poor 
patients, farm laborers, not far from Diggle- 
ton’s End. But he had not yet appeared. Dodd 
Avas a good deal perplexed in his mind, and by 
degrees, during the frequent absences of his 
wife, Avho was busy with her household affairs, 
he confided to me the cause of his perplexity. 
He had certain suspicions regarding Mr. Smith. 
Mr. Ayrlie had laughed at him at first, but it 
appeared that the strength of his (Dodd’s) per- 
suasion had somewhat availed at last. For 
Mr. Ayrlie, after Avarning him over and over 
again to be cautious, had at length consented 
to come and talk the matter over, and try to 
deAuse some means of getting at the truth. 

‘ You see. Sir,’ said Dodd, ‘ this Mr. Smith 
fought uncommon shy of Horsingham folks ; 
Avould see none of ’em if he could help it. That 
didn’t look like being on the square. But I 
had had a glimpse of him once or tAvice by 
chance. And I had heard his voice one day 
in the inn-yard at Market Diggleton, and I’d 
dodged him here and there, and watched him 
after I began to have my suspicions, and the 
notion I had in my head grew stronger and 
stronger.’ But it presently appeared that 
Dodd’s interests in the matter conflicted with 
his search for truth, for he confessed to me that 
he Avanted to sell his fields to the ‘ Company,’ 
and that Mr. Smith’s favor or opposition would 
be all-important to him in that negotiation. 

‘ Sometimes I’m tempted to think I must be 
cracked to harbor such a suspicion. But then 
at other times it takes hold upon me so strong 
— ’specially if I’m lying aAvake o’ nights — that I 
feel as if I must rise up then and there and 
take steps in the matter.’ ” 

“ But to Avhat,” said I, interrupting my grand- 
father, “ did Dodd’s suspicions point ?” 

“ You Avill hear, Anne,” he ansAvered, grave- 
ly, and then resumed: “Greatly to Dodd’s 
surprise, I told him that I believed I held in 
my hands a cleAV Avhich might lead to the dis- 
coA’ery of the truth, but that success depended 
on our acting with caution ; and that, above all, 
no hint of danger must be alloAved to reach the 
ears of Mr. Smith. I declined to tell Dodd 
any particulars of my plan for the present ; and 
h| declared he Avas Avilling to trust to my Avis- 
dom in the matter. By this time it Avas past 


JG8 


ANNE EURNESS. 


eight o’clock. The rain had come on, and the 
night was very dark. I had resolved to return 
to the inn at Market Diggleton before going 
home, being unwilling to lose the chance of 
seeing the man I was in search of that night. 
It was, of course, possible^ — indeed, likely — that 

he would remain at W all night ; but, as I 

have said, I would not lose a chance. Alice 
tried to persuade me to let their horse be put 
to a covered cart they use for marketing, and 
to drive to Market Diggleton in that, as she 
declared I should be wet to the skin in my own 
little open chaise. But I refused, being un- 
willing to lose more time. I had plenty of 
wraps, and Dodd lent me a great mackintosh 
cape ; and, after all, I’m not reduced to being 
afraid of a shower of rain. So I declared my- 
self ready to start. But all the discussion had 
taken up time. It had taken some time, too, 
although not a great deal, to get the groom to 
move from the comfortable kitchen of the Roy- 
al Oak, where he was being entertained with 
unlimited hospitality. Altogether it must have 
been hard upon nine o’clock before the chaise 
was ready. My servant had scarcely gathered 
the reins in his hand when a man came running 
breathless into the stable-yard, all wet and 
splashed with the mire of the road. Assist- 
ance was needed at once! A man was lying 
badly hurt in Diggleton Wood. Maybe he was 
murdered. They must send a mattress and 
some men to help carry him. And some one 
with a lantern. Mr. Ayrlie, the doctor, was 
there, and said they’d best carry him to the 
Royal Oak, as ’twas the nearest house. Haste, 
haste ! 

“Alice behaved very W'ell. She was quick 
and quiet, and peremptorily hushed down her 
two foolish serving-women, who began to cry 
and clap their hands hysterically. In almost 
as short a time as it takes to tell it you quite a 
procession started from the Royal Oak, carrying 
a mattress and blankets to sling it by, and with 
Dodd himself at their head bearing a big stable 
lantern. I believe I was the only man left 
about the place. But my old legs could not 
keep pace with the speed the others were mak- 
ing. ‘At least,’ said I to Alice, who, now that 
the necessity for action was over, was looking 
very faint and scared — ‘ at least this poor fellow 
will be well looked after, whoever he is. What- 
ever could be done for him Donald would be 
sure to do.’ Then we waited, with what out- 
ward composure we might. It was really a 
short time, although it seemed long enough to 
us, before the party returned, bearing on the 
mattress a form covered up and sheltered from 
the rain as far as was practicable. Dodd still 
led the way with the lantern, and beside the 
bearers of the mattress walked Donald. Dodd 
had already told him of my presence at the 
Royal Oak, and he greeted me with outstretch- 
ed hand, saying in a low voice, ‘ I’m afraid 
this is a bad business.’ ‘ Is he dead ?’ I asked. 
Donald shook his head slightly. Do you guess, 
Anne, whose that maimed figure was that w^s 


laid on a bed under Dodd’s roof, with Don- 
ald ministering to him and tending him ? I 
see the answer in your white face. Our first 
business — Donald’s and mine — was to ascertain 
the extent of the injuries he had received. I 
had the room cleared of all save Dodd, who 
assisted us, and we proceeded to make our ex- 
amination. He had been robbed. The pock- 
ets of an overcoat he wore were rifled. His 
watch was ,gone, but the broken chain was still 
attached to his waistcoat. The robber must 
have done his work in fear of interruption and 
detection, for every thing bore marks of extreme 
haste. The injured man lay perfectly insensi- 
ble under our hands. He had been ‘ garroted, ’ 
as the word is ; rendered insensible by a drug, 
and then brutally beaten. He had received a 
frightful blow on the back of the head, a blow 
evidently given by a heavy, blunt instrument. I 
spare you all the painful details. In removing 
his clothes, I found a little pocket-book, or port- 
folio, in an inner pocket. Your description 
immediately came into my mind. I opened 
the pocket-book and found there — your letter. 
The little leather case contained nothing else. 
I sent Dodd out of the room to ask for some- 
thing of which we had need, and the moment 
he was gone, I took from my note-book, in 
which it had lain, unknown to any one, for 
many a day, a torn greasy scrap of paper. I 
smoothed the letter out, and laid my torn scrap 
to it. As I had expected, they fitted nearly 
perfectly. ‘ Look here, Donald,’ said I. ‘Do 
you recognize this ?’ It was the scrap of oily 
paper on which the thief who had robbed him 
in that very house on the night w'e have all such 
deep cause to remember had wiped his fin- 
gers. Donald knew it at once, and looked at 
me in speechless amazement. ‘ Then,’ said he 
at length, almost in a whisper, ‘ Dodd was 
right ! And the wretched man before us is no 
other than the disguised Methodist parson I 
He must have been then flying from detection, 
and doubtless made one of the horde of black- 
guards of all sorts and classes which the races 
annually cause to swarm into Horsingham. 
But who could have conceived — who could 
have dreamed, of finding such a one in the po- 
sition of this Smith ? 

“‘That is not his only <xUas, Donald,’ I 
said. ‘ There is yet another name he is known 
by in Horsingham ; whether a i be his own or 
not, God knows ! He "was once called here — 
Gervase Lacer.’ 

“ I then related to him, as briefly and clear- 
ly as I could, the story of your meeting with 
him.; and told him that the circumstances of 
his having in his possession a letter written by 
you first put me on the right track for discov- 
ering his identity with the itinerant preacher. 
I had picked up and carefully preserved the 
torn scrap of your letter — I hardly knew why 
myself ; certainly not foreseeing what it was to 
lead to — and had said no word about it to any 
one. I would you could have seen our dear 
Donald, child, by that bedside ! After the 


ANNE rUENESS. 


1G9 


first moment he put aside every thing but the 
plain duty which lay before him. There was 
no room for wrath or vengeance in his heart at 
that time. The man was lying maimed and 
injured before him, dependent on Donald’s 
skill and care for life itself, and he nobly ful- 
filled the noble duties of his calling. I felt 
proud and thankful to know that my dear 
child’s child was to be the wife of such a man !” 

“God bless him!” I sobbed out. I was 
blinded by tears. 

Grandfather then told mo that, after a hur- 
ried consultation between them, he and Donald 
had decided to say nothing for the present to 
Dodd of their discoA^ery. The greatest con- 
fusion reigned in the house. Servants were 
running hither and thither, carrying the wild- 
est reports to and fro. All Alice’s energy and 
sense barely sufficed to keep a semblance of or- 
der. Up to a very late hour groups of people 
kept coming into the bar, and the excitement 
caused a great consumption of liquor. Pres- 
ently Mr. , the London engineer who had 

been staying at Market Diggleton on behalf of 
the “Company,” arrived. He was greatly 
shocked at the dreadful occurrence, but did not 
waste many Avords. His chief anxiety Avas to 
discover the rufiian Avho had committed the 
crime. He was very energetic, and imposed 
something like energy even into the phlegmatic 
rural constable, for whom Alice had long ago 
expressed so profound a contempt. No mon- 
ey Avas to be spared, said Mr. , and no 

trouble. 

“Has suspicion fallen upon any one?” I 
asked. 

“I don’t know, child. I heard some vague 
rumor. I could not concern myself Avith that. 
Donald and I had hands and head fully occu- 
])ied Avith our Avretched patient.” 

“Is there — is there danger, grandfather? 
Danger to life ?” 

“Anne, there is danger — great danger. 
The unfortunate Avretch has been badly hurt. 
He Avas still insensible Avhen I came aAvay. He 
may perhaps neA'er recover consciousness.” 

“ Oh, it is terrible !” 

“It is terrible; but — ought AV'e to Avish to 
prolong such a life ?” 

“Oh, but time — ! Time to repent, to do 
better ! Think of being hurled at otie blow 
into the aAvful gulf of the hereafter!” 

I Avas terribly agitated, and grandfather 
soothed me, and AA'as tenderly patient Avith me 
as he had been in my childish days. After a 
Avhile I greAV calmer, and could be considerate 
for the dear old man who Avas so unselfishly 
considerate for others. I made him go and 
lie doAvn. He A\'as very weary. As for my- 
self, although I had passed a sleepless night, I 
Avas utterly unable to rest. Grandfather had 
insisted, before going to his OAvn room, that I 
should retire to mine. I consented, chiefly to 
avoid the pain of being questioned. The 
house Avas beginning to be astir, and I dreaded 
to meet Judith, and yet more to have to reply 


to my mother’s inquiries. I had not fortitude 
enough to bear them as yet ; for, above all 
things, it Avas necessary that mother should 
continue to believe that the victim of this crime 
Avas a mere stranger to us. I think that an 
abrupt communication of the truth might have 
killed her. She could ncA’er, to the end of her 
life, bear even a passing allusion to the old 
days at Water-Eardley, and those avIio had 
been associated Avith those days, Avithout the 
keenest pain of mind. 

I lay Aveeping and trembling on my bed. 
Old memories, which had seemed to be oblit- 
erated from my brain, came thronging back to 
me. The ghosts of departed days came and 
looked at me Avith eyes full of almost unendur- 
able pathos. I felt an anguish of compassion 
for the man Avho lay upon his bed of pain a 
detected criminal — the man who had once held 
my hand and asked me to be his Avife, and 
Avhom I, in my girlish folly and ignorance, 
playing Avith a mighty passion as a child might 
play Avith fire, had once fancied that I loA'ed ! 

It Avas bright, broad day, and the sun Avas 
shining on the Avorld, and the leaves and grass 
still sparkled with the tremulous diamonds of 
last night’s rain, Avhen Donald came home. 

I heard him enter, and stole doAvn to meet 
him. He AA^as just entering the study Avhen I 
came along the passage, and Avhispered his 
name. He turned and took my hand, and led 
me into the room. I could not speak, but I 
looked at him, and I felt my lips quivering be- 
yond all poAver of mine to control. 

“Darling!” he said, very solemnly, “my 
OAvn dear love, it is all over. He is dead.” 

Then he opened his arms, and let me Aveep 
my heaA'y heart out on his breast. 

»■ 

CHAPTER LVII. 

The public excitement in Horsingham was 
intense. The crime itself — in its special cir- 
cumstances — Avas an unprecedented one in our 
neighborhood. Horsingham had not had the 
honor of contributing so enthralling an item of 
neAvs to the daily jn’ess for many a long year, 
if, indeed, it ever had done so. But in our oaa'u 
neighborhood one of the greatest sources of in- 
terest, and AA'hich seemed to add a hideous rel- 
ish to the eagerness (ahvays hideous enough to 
me) Avith Avhich all particulars of the crime 
Avere sought out and discussed, Avas the fact 
that the murdered man had been the rich “City 
gentleman” Avho Avas so influential in the “ Com- 
pany” that was to make so many people’s for- 
tunes in Horsingham. 

IleaA’en forgive me if I Avrong them, but I 
used to think at the time that the knots of gos- 
siping idlers Avho at all times and seasons, and 
in all manner of places, Avere to be found dis- 
cussing the dreadful eA'ent, would fain have had 
yet more horrors to gloat over; and that if a 
financial “smash,” as they termed it — in other 
AA’ords, the ruin of many families — could have 


170 


ANNE FUKNESS. 


been the result of the victim’s death, their ex- 
citement would have been more pleasurable 
than painful. But no such thing happened, at 
least so far as Horsingham folks ever knew. I 
had to school myself to hear the event discussed 
in all sorts of tones by all sorts of people. Two 
brave, faithful men were ready and willing to 
screen me from the pain such discussions caused 
me, but they could not do so altogether. Some- 
thing — much — I had to bear, which neither 
Donald nor grandfather could spare me. Thank 
Heaven, my mother was spared entirely. It was 
not so difficult a task as it seemed at first to shut 
out from her the rumors with which the town 
was ringing. Newspapers she never read. Our 
two old servants were faithful and discreet, and 
few' strangers were ever admitted into mother’s 
presence. Poor Judith had a dim idea — born 
of the true affection which made her observant 
of us all — that the murder had been a severer 
trial to me, had affected me more powerfully 
than it had affected others. She W'atched me 
pityingly, would timidly stroke my hair or 
press my hand when she thought herself unob- 
served, and made efforts to turn aside the con- 
versation whenever it approached that topic in 
my presence. That her efforts were generally 
unintelligible to third persons, and that they 
consequently had no effect save to cause vari- 
ous persons to enter into elaborate recapitula- 
tions of the most harrowdng details, under the 
impression that she had not understood their 
previous statements — all this was not her fault. 
And I was none the less grateful for the simple 
attachment which prompted her attempts. 

Due and well-directed inquiries elicited in- 
formation w'hich put the police on the track of 
the robber who had given so tragic a fame to 
the peaceful thickets of Diggleton Wood. A 
man had been several times to the inn where 
Mr. Smith w'as staying to ask for him — a shab- 
by, drunken, evil-looking fellow. On two occa- 
sions he had seen Mr. Smith and spoken with 
him, and one of the waiters had seen him count- 
ing money in his hand as he Avent away. Mr. 
Smith had given orders that the man was to be 
admitted Avhenever he came. This order had 
excited a good deal of surprise among the serv- 
ants of the inn at the time, more especially as 
Mr. Smith seemed to dislike the felloAv, and 
once a loud altercation had taken place between 
them. When the servants entered the room 
Mr. Smith had appeared to be soothing his 
strange visitor, Avho looked angry and sullen. 
The latter had not been seen in the neighbor- 
hood since the murder. 

He Avas traced, by the description given of 

him by the inn servants, to W , Avhere he had 

again sought Mr. Smith on the very day that the 
crime was committed. It Avas supposed that he 
had then gained information as to the Avay by 
W’hich his unfortunate victim Avould return to 
Market Diggleton, and had Avaylaid him Avith 
intent to rob him. Murder had probably not 
been his object at all. Many persons came for- 
AA’ard to testify that they had seen this man Avan- 


dering about the neighborhood. One person 
Avas able to say Avho he Avas. This witness was 
William Hodgekinson, Avho declared that the 
drunken felloAv who had haunted the Market 
Diggleton inn could, from the description, be no 
other than Flower, our former groom, Avho (as 
may be remembered) had applied to Farmer 
Hodgekinson to get him a situation, and had 
been repulsed. Yet it seemed at first sight 
incredible that such a small, poor creature as 
Flower was, weakened, too, by disease and in- 
temperance, should have been able to overpoAV- 
er a vigorous man like the supposed Mr. Smith. 
But there Avas irrefragable evidence to prove 
that Smith had been stupefied by means of 
chloroform. 

There Avere no means of tracing any of the 
stolen property. The Avatch had been found 
the next morning not far from the scene of the 
crime. The robber had probably throAvn it 
away, fearing, on second thoughts, that it might 
lead to his detection. What amount of ready 
cash the murdered man had about him AV'as 
never knoAvn. He Avas knoAvn to carry consid- 
erable sums on his person, and Avas rather os- 
tentatious in the display of his money. 

From the first moment the rumor reached 
me I had a firm conA’iction that FloAA’er Avas the 
guilty man ; and my conviction Avas shared by 
my grandfather. Donald hesitated to come so 
absolutely to the same conclusion. 

“Ah!” said my grandfather, “that is be- 
cause you don’t knoAv the villain as Avell as 
Anne and I knoAV him.” 

‘ ‘ A man may be a villain, anff yet stop short 
of murder.” 

“I tell you there was no stopping short for 
such as he. I remember so Avell saying to poor 
George Avhen he first engaged this ill-omened 
Avretch, ‘ What 1 he comes to you furnished 
Avith a diploma from the high school of perdi- 
tion!’ Alas! I spoke more tnily than I 
kncAV.” 

How’eA'er it be, the truth has not yet been 
revealed, and in all likelihood never Avill be. 
FloAver Avas never seen in our neighborhood 
more. A Avarrant Avas taken out against him, 
and search was made, but he Avas never cap- 
tured. Some said he had escaped to America. 
Others surmised that he had drowned himself. 
(This latter story arose simply from the fact 
that about that time the body of a fnaii Avas 
found in the Thames, and remained for some 
time unclaimed and unrecognized.) One favor- 
ite legend Avas that he had got aAvay to the Con- 
tinent, and was so highly valued there for his 
knoAvledge of race-horses that a number of 
poAverful and illustrious personages had com- 
bined, although thoroughly cognizant of the 
crime he had committed, to shield him from 
the pursuit of the English laAv in order to profit 
by his rare skill and experience. 

I knoAv that for many and many a year the 
thought that the guilty, undetected Avretch Avho 
did the brutal deed might be Avandering about 
the Avorld, might be in the same country, in the 


ANNE FURNESS. 


171 


same town, with myself — that I might rest my 
gaze upon him, and suspect nothing of the hor- 
rible weight of crime that lay upon his soul — 
haunted me like a hideous crime. I would 
wake in the night-season cold and shuddering 
with the horror of that thought, which seemed 
to have pierced my sleep like a sword. I touch 
as slightly as I can upon all thiit. Even now 
the remembrance of it chills and oppresses me. 

I believe that, except my grandfather, Don- 
ald, and myself, no one suspected the identity 
of “Mr. Smith” with Get ase Lacer. If there 
were in Horsingham another who guessed or 
knew it, it may have been Matthew Kitchen. 
But this is a mere surmise of mine. Matthew 
kept his own counsel ; and if he knew the se- 
cret the world was never the wiser. 

In the first moments of the shock that had 
come upon us, I remember very well that I had 
a special dread of my uncle’s family. What 
the Cudberrys would say and do I dared not 
contemplate, and I feared I should never be 
able to nerve myself sufficiently to face their 
pitiless comments and their insatiable curios- 
ity. But it chanced that they displayed com- 
paratively little interest in the topic with which 
the whole neighborhood was ringing, and that 
for two reasons : the first was that their atten- 
tion Avas naturally much engrossed by Clemen- 
tina’s marriage, noAv close at hand ; and the 
second Avas an unexpected eA’^ent, AA’hich I must 
chronicle in due course. 

I had been especially invited to the AA’edding 
at Woolling, and had gh^en a half promise to 
be present. But I noAv felt that such an effort 
AA'as impossible to me, and Donald and my 
grandfather agreed in saying that it Avas out of 
the question. To my mother little explana- 
tion of my change of plan Avas needed. She 
found it quite natural that I should be unAAdll- 
ing to enter a scene of boisterous merriment 
just then ; although she little kneAv — thank 
Heaven — Avhat deeply painful reason I had to 
shrink from such a gathering. But to the Cud- 
berrys it Avas very difficult to make an accept- 
able excuse. At last my grandfather cut mat- 
ters short by saying that, as my doctor, he did 
not mean to alloAV me to risk any excitement. 
I had been ailing and nervous of late, he de- 
clared, and might possibly spoil the mirth of 
the party and mar the occasion by fainting, or 
having to go to bed with violent headaches, or 
some equally disagreeable proceeding. This 
threat availed. 

“Lord bless ’ee, my loA’e!” said Aunt Cud- 
berry, “don’t you come here to be fainting, or 
any thing of that sort. For Avith all I have to 
do, and Mrs. Ilodgekinson’s stern eye upon the 
pastry — to say nothing of my natural feelings 
for Clementina, poor thing ! — I could not en- 
dure one grain more Avorry. It Avould turn the 
scale, and break the camel’s back, love, and so 
I tell you.” 

Poor Clemmy and her bridegroom Avere real- 
ly disappointed, and I Avas sorry to vex them. 
So sorry Avas I that I promised to go to Wool- 


ling the evening before the Avedding to see the 
trusso, as Uncle Cudberry called his daughter's 
outfit, to behold the glories of the breakfast- 
table, laid out ready to receive the good things 
Avhich cost Aunt Cudberry such toil of body and 
anxiety of mind, to say a kind Avord of good 
Avishes to the bridal pair, and to present .a little 
Avedding gift from each member of the house- 
hold at Mortlands. They Avere all very simple 
presents except Donald’s, AA^ho gave a really 
handsome piece of plate. But I must do Clem- 
my the justice to say that she shoAved no pecul- 
iar delight in or preference for the costliest 
gift. She Avas genuinely touched and gratified 
at haAung been remembered by each one of us 
separately; and she sent a special message of 
thanks to Mrs. Abram for her offering of seA’- 
eral pairs of knitted muffatees of fleecy wool. 
These articles Avere oppressive to look upon in 
the sultry summer Aveather ; but then, as Judith 
observed, the Avinter tvould certainly come round 
again, and it Avas Avell to be prepared. 

I had made it an express condition of my 
visit that no stranger should be present — not 
even Mrs. Hodgekinson ; no one but the Cud- 
berry family, and, of course, William Hodge- 
kinson, AA'ho Avas so soon to become my cousin. 
Grandfather and Donald Avere to come and 
fetch me early in the evening. 

The day passed off very Avell. Henrietta Avas 
the only sour drop amidst the general SAveet- 
ness. But no one much minded her. She did 
not dare to be very offensive in Avords Avhen her 
father Avas present, so she Avas reduced to ex- 
hibiting her disdain of her future brother-in-laAV 
by expressive sniff’s and shrugs, and Avdde stares 
of affected amazement Avhenever he lapsed into 
any very broad rusticity in his talk. To me she 
Avas reserved and lofty, which mood suited me 
very Avell, as it dispensed me from the necessity 
of conversing much Avith her. So that alto- 
gether the day passed off very Avell, as I have 
said. 

Grandfather and Donald arrived about half 
past five o’clock. Aunt and Uncle Cudberry 
received them more than graciously. Henny 
thaAved a little on their coming, and performed 
a Avaltz Avith variations on the piano-forte before 
tea, Avhich reduced us all to absolute speechless- 
ness for full five minutes after it Avas finished. 
But I suppose that was no uncommon effect of 
Henny’s performances, and, for aught I knoAv, 
may have been the very one she intended to 
produce ; for she appeared quite satisfied, and 
took her seat at the tea-table in very tolerable 
good humor. 

We had got about half-Avay through the meal, 
when Avheels AA'ere heard approaching the house. 
Then the gate creaked, and footsteps crushed 
the graA'el of the garden path. 

“Who on earth can this be?” cried Aunt 
Cudberry, Avith one of her indescribable gri- 
maces and a doleful tone of voice. 

As this Avas a question no one of us could 
ansAver, Ave Avent on Avith our tea, and said 
nothing. Presently there Avas a strange sound 


172 


ANNE FURNESS. 


of hustling and scuffling in the hall, and a sup- 
pressed voice, which yet was distinctly audible 
to us, and appeared to proceed from immediate- 
ly outside the sitting-room door, was heard to 
say, “ Do as I tell you. Say it, you booby ! ” 

Upon this the door was thrown violently 
open, and Daniel of the ruddy locks, entering 
with a plunge, as though he had been pushed 
from behind, announced, in a loud tone of voice, 
“Mr. and Mrs. Whiffles!” 

There was a sudden and unnatural silence 
among us, and, as it were, a dead pause of ex- 
pectation, until there appeared in the doorway 
Mr, Whiffles with Tilly Cudberry on his arm, 
when Aunt Cudberry immediately uttered an 
extraordinary sound, more like a squeak than a 
scream, and Uncle Cudberry sprang from his 
chair all with one jerk, like a Jack-in-the-box, 
and stood staring at them speechlessly. 

Never shall I forget the apparition of the 
strangely assorted couple that now advanced 
into the centre of the room. 

Tilly Avas dressed in bright lilac silk, with a 
white bonnet, and white gloves much too long 
for her. She had replaced her favorite holly- 
hocks by a mass of Avhite flowers — chie% 
orange blossoms — Avhich looked as though they 
had been collected from several milliners’ shops, 
and not bought all at once, being heterogeneous 
in style and make. Her eyes Avere very bright 
and very Avide oi)en. Her face Avas of a fiery 
red hue, by no means mitigated by the coating 
of poAvder she had spread over it Avith a bold 
andunsparing hand. Her Avholc aspectbreathed 
a mixture of energy, triumph, and defiance, 

Mr. Whiffles, on the other hand, Avas subdued, 
not to say abject, in appearance. His attire Avas 
neAA', and comprised,! should think, nearly eA^ery 
color of the rainboAV. He Avore a pair of the 
light yellow gloves Avhich I remembered as a 
specialty of his toilet, but on this occasion the 
light yelloAV gloA^es Avere clean. His breastpin 
I am afraid to describe. Had the stones in it 
been real, I should suppose they Avould have 
been worth several thousand pounds. He car- 
ried a shining hat in one hand and a large Avhite 
handkerchief in the other, and he used the hand- 
kerchief at frequent intervals in the manner of 
a mop all over his face. Tilly’s hand rested on 
his arm, but, in truth, it seemed rather that she 
Avas supporting him — or, at all events, regula- 
ting his movements — for she dreAv him forAvard 
Avith an obvious tug into a commanding position, 
Avhence she could survey us all, and looking 
round, Avith elation in her eye, exclaimed in a 
sonorous voice, “ We//, ma and pa, I am noAV 
Matilda Whiffles !” 

Aunt Cudberry repeated the squeak, but it 
noAv came muffled from behind her handker- 
chief. No one else moved an eyelash. To a 
disinterested obsoi’ver, had any such been pres- 
ent, Ave must all have presented the appearance 
of being spell-bound. 

“I am, in fact,” pursued Tilly, Avith fresh 
emphasis, “J/rs. Whiffles ! And this” — pre- 
senting him by pushing him slightly foi’Avard 


and then draAving him tOAA'ard her again — “is 
Mr. Whiffles. I do hope, pa and ma, that the 
Cudberrys Avill make up their minds to receive 
him properly and in a becoming spirit. In 
point of position the Cudberrys haA'e nothing 
to say ; their tongues are tied on that score by 
the approaching alliance of a Cudberry of Wool- 
ling — although but the third daughter — Avith 
Mrs. Hodgekinson’s son! Hut as far as that 
goes, pa and ma, I have long said that we must 
move Avith the times ; and I feel quite friendly 
myself, and so does Mr. Whiffles, tOAA'ard all the 
Cudberrys.” 

Mr. Whiffles’s head shook A’iolently from side 
to side, but in some half-audible murmurings he 
appeared to confirm his Avife’s statement. Still 
none of the rest of the party appeared able to 
utter a Avord. Henrietta had turned livid — I 
suppose from indignation. Clemmy and young 
Hodgekinson had squeezed themselves close to- 
gether at one side of the table, and looked as 
frightened as a couple of school-children Avho 
Avitness the spectacle of a comrade in disgrace, 
and are conscious that fortune rather than merit 
has saved themselves from the like. Aunt Cud- 
berry’s face Avas completely muffled in her hand- 
kerchief, and her husband remained staring at 
his daughter Tilly Avith an utterly Avooden and 
expressionless cquntenance. 

“We Avere married this morning,” pursued 
the bride, continuing to affront the discouraging 
silence of her parents Avith a dauntless energy 
Avhich really Avas almost heroic, “at the Church 
of St. James and St. John, by the Reverend 
Morgan Jones. Mrs. Nixon Avas present, and 
Mr. Nixon gave away the bride. AVe start this 
evening by the coach for a short tour of one 
Aveek, after Avhich Ave return to take possession 
of our OAvn house in the High Street, Horsing- 
ham. I am aAvare, pa and ma, that you may 
consider yourselves to have some cause of com- 
plaint against me for not having informed you 
of my engagement, and asked your consent. But 
the truth is, it AA^as sudden ; extremely sudden” 
— Mr. Whiffles here gave the queerest little 
gasping cough, and mopped his face violently — 
“ and, besides, I thought it very likely that ob- 
stacles might be raised and opposition attempt- 
ed by the Cudberrys. But reallg if I had de- 
pended on the Cudberrys, instead of acting a 
little for myself, I might never have got mar- 
ried at all ! Mr. Whiffles’s business prospects 
are very good; his connection is increasing, and 
he is patronized by the first people in the coun- 
ty. The house is nicely furnished and cheer- 
ful, Avith AvindoAvs looking both Avays, up and 
doAvn the High Street. There is a private en- 
trance ; and as to a slight smell of stables, that 
can scarcely be an objection to a Cudberry of 
AVoolling, whose bedroom has overlooked the 
farm-yard ever since she can remember ! Mr. 
Whiffles is extremely steady, has obliging man- 
ners, and is Avishful to conciliate. As to differ- 
ences of birth and education, he is fully aAvare 
of them, but feels that a matrimonial connec- 
tion Avith the Cudberrys Avill give him a position 


ANNE FURNESS. 


173 


which he is quite certain to do his best to main- 
tain.” 

To hear Tilly, as it were, appraising her hus- 
band like, an auctioneer, as unconcernedly as 
though the poor man were a thousand miles 
away, and speaking of her father and mother 
and sisters and brother to their faces as the 
“ Cudberrys,” was a truly amazing thing. Her 
last sentence, however, had been too much for 
my uncle. He broke his silence with a tre- 
mendous oath, which made every one start as 
though a pistol - shot had been fired among 
us; and then roared out at the full pitch of 
his voice, “A matrimonial connection with the 
Cudberrys ! Curse his brazen impudence!” 

It seemed as though the spell were snapped 
all of a sudden ; every one began talking at 
once. Henny scolded, Aunt Cudberry cried, 
my uncle swore, William Hodgekinson remon- 
strated and tried to comfort Clemmy, who kept 
whimpering helplessly and exclaiming, “Oh, 
don’t, please ! oh, don’t, please !” over and over 
again, Avithout apparently knoAving in the least 

Avhat she Avas saying. ^ 

. Throughout the Avhole scene I felt the sin- 
cerest pity for one actor in it, and that Avas 
Mr. Whiffles. His embarrassment and con- 
fusion, and his strong sense of cutting but a 
sorry figure, and his evident inability to hit 
upon any method of asserting himself and im- 
proving his position, really moA^ed my compas- 
sion. But Avhen Uncle Cudberry began to 
SAvear a gleam came into Mr. Whiffles’s eye. 
He raised his head and looked round him. 
'When Uncle Cudberry continued to let off" a'oI- 
ley after volley of oaths — Avhich he did in the 
oddest way, as though they dropped from his 
mouth Avithout his Avill or foreknoAA’ledge, like 
the toads and snakes from the lips of the girl 
in the fairy-tale — Mr. Whiffles shook off his 
Avife’s arm, and advanced Avith an air of resolu- 
tion to his father-in-laAV. The change in his de- 
meanor Avas so marked that it arrested uncle’s 
attention in the full torrent of his Avrath. There 
Avas a pause. Mr. Whiffles cleared his throat, 
tAvitched his head, pulled up his shirt collar, 
and said, in a mild, mournful voice, singularly 
at variance AA'ith the Avords he uttered: “Noav 
look here, Mr. Cudberry of Woolling, this is 
all dam nonsense! It is, upon my soul, you 
krioAV. What’s the use of your flaring up like 
this, Mr. Cudberry? I didn’t AA’ant to come 
here at all. I’d a dam sight rather not, in 
point of fact ; but Miss Cud — I mean my 
Avife — she Avould come, you know. My plan 
Avould haA'e been to have wrote a few lines to 
the family announcing the — event — announcing 
the event, and leaving it free to the family to 
come and see us or to leaA'e it alone, according 
as it suited their book, if I may be alloAved to 
make use of such an expression. But noAv 
Miss Cud — I mean Mrs. Whiffles — has had her 
OAvn Avay, and I hope she likes it. I haA’e no 
Avish to intrude ’ere or helseAvhere, Mr. Cud- 
berry of Woolling. I meet conciliation with 
conciliation, but I Avon’t stand being bullied; 


’specially Avhen it ain’t my fault. I didn’t Avant 
to marry Miss Cud — at least, of course, I don’t 
mean that ; but Avhat I’ve got to say is, that I 
didn’t begin it.” 

^^Circumstances," put in Tilly, Avith intense 
emphasis, and no Avhit abashed by her bride- 
groom’s singular defense of himself — “ circum- 
stances threAv us together, in the first place.” 

“Yes,” pursued Mr. Whiffles, “circum- 
stances over AA’hich 7’d no control. Your 
daughter’s old enough to knoAv her OAvn mind. 
And though your family may be as ^e?iteel as 
Queen Victory’s, still family ain’t every think. 
I can keep your daughter like a lady, and I in- 
tend to do it. And the long and the short of 
it is, that your flaring up in this Ava}^, Mr. Cud- 
berry of Woolling, is — dam nonsense. ’Bon 
my soul, it is !” 

This speech appeared someAvhat to raise Mr. 
Whiffles in Uncle Cudberry’s opinion. Ho 
ceased to groAvl and mutter, and, turning aAvay, 
Avalked once or tAvice up and doAvn the room. 
Donald and my grandfather, after a Avhispered 
Avord or tAvo Avith me, dreAV uncle aside, and 
began talking to him in a Ioav voice. Mean- 
Avhile I crossed the room to Tilly, Avho Avas 
standing quite isolated, and looking very flush- 
ed and flustered in her bridal finery, and gaA’e 
her my hand. You and I have no quarrel, at 
all events, Tilly,” said I. 

“Miss Furness,” exclaimed Mr. Whiffles, 
Avith enthusiasm, “I am grateful to you for 
your kindness to Mrs. W. You are a lady 
from the croAvn of your head to the sole of 
your foot. Miss Furness ; and I never, in the 
Avhole course of my existence, had the ’appin- 
ess to see you looking so remarkably and un- 
commonly well as you are looking at this mo- 
ment !” 

Grandfather noAV came up, and began talk- 
ing gently and gravely to Tilly. He pointed 
out to her that her parents Avere naturally ag- 
grieved and hurt at the manner of her mar- 
riage. “We AA’on’t say any thing about the 
choice you have made, because that is a point 
on Avhich I think no one has a right to inter- 
fere Avith you at your age, and because I 
think and hope that your marriage may turn 
out to be a satisfactory one Avhen this little 
breeze has bloAvn over. But your father and 
mother have a right to expect some soft Avord 
from you, some expression of sorroAV at having 
offended them. Don’t you agree Avith me, Mr. 
Whiffles?” 

Mr. Whiffles was all humility to my grand- 
father, and was ready to agree to any thing he 
might say. Between them, they persuaded 
Tilly to sue for her father’s forgiveness ; Avhich 
she did Avith a good deal of rigidity, and a good 
many allusions to the exemplary manner in 
Avhich she was sacrificing her OAvn feelings, and 
to the pattern of filial piety she Avas setting in 
condescending to ask pardon at all. 

By degrees, Mr. Cudberry Avas, not soft- 
ened — that is certainly not the right Avord — but 
brought to say that Avhat couldn’t be cured must 


174 


FUKNESS. 


be endured, and that he hoped Tilly wouldn’t 
live to repent having made a fool of herself. 
To Mr. Whiffles he merely said, with a portent- 
ous look, “I’m glad to find you’ve some pluck 
about you. You'll loant it." 

Mrs. Cudberry dried her eyes, and kissed 
Tilly, and took hold of Mr. Whiffles’s yellow 
glove, and then dropped it as if it had burned her. 

“So you’ve been and married Miss Cudber- 
ry, have you ?” said she, tearfully. “ Ah dear ! 
ah dear ! Poor thing ! ” 

It must be owned that poor Mr. Whifiles’s 
bridal congratulations were not altogether ex- 
hilarating. 

Clementina and her betrothed made friends 
with their new brother-in-law as far as they 
could; but Mr. Whiffles was ill at ease, and 
was evidently relieved when his wife declared 
that it was time to be going, or they should lose 
the coach. There was only one member of the 
party who remained utterly implacable. With 
Henrietta there were no terms to be made. 
She even, for the first time in her life, openly 
resisted her father’s authority when he desired 
her to shake hands with her sister and wish 
her good-by. 

“No, pa,” said she; “never! The family 
has been degraded” (with a glance at young 
Hodgekinson) ; “but condescend quite to wal- 
low in the mire I never will while I have breath !” 
And if wallowing in the mire meant reconcilia- 
tion with her sister, she never did. 

Before he left the house Mr. Whiffles came 
and made me a little speech, while his wife was 
saying farewell to her mother. 

“ Miss Furness, I am at a loss to express in 
a adequate manner my sense of your goodness, 
and of the honor you do me in speaking to one 
who, like myself, has been destitute of the ad- 
vantage of ladies’ society, and consequently may 
offend, although involuntarily. Also your re- 
vered grandfather, miss” — with a little bow in 
his direction — “Dr. Hewson, of Mortlands. You 
need never fear. Miss Furness, nor Dr. Hewson, 
that I shall intrude or push myself upon you. 
I am too conscious of the heighth whereon you 
stand. If at any time you should like a mount, 
Miss Furness, my stable is at your service ; and 
if you could ride twelve horses at once, miss, 
like the famed Ducrow, you should have ’em. 
I shall ever keep my distance, being aware of 
my deficiencies. And I wish you, miss, and 
your honored ma, and your revered grandfa- 
ther, every ’appiness and prosperity that earth 
can afford. And I hope you’ll allow me to say 
that never, throughout the course of a rather 
checkered career, have I beheld you looking so 
remarkably and astonishingly well as you look 
at the present moment!” 

■o 

CHAPTER LVIII. 

Is my story told ? Nay, not mine. But the 
story of Anne Furness draws near its close. 
Anne Ayrlie’s is a hai)py story ; too bright and 


unruffled in its smooth current to tempt either 
narrator or listener. 

I was married in the spring-time, and Mort- ‘ 
lands has been my happy home for many years. 
Dear grandfather lived to a great age, cheerful 
and benevolent to the last, and died peacefully 
in his sleep without a pang. My mother Avas 
taken before him ; but she lived to hold my 
first-born child in her arms. These two have 
been the only gaps Avhich death has made in 
our household. 

As I look around me I see few changes in 
Horsingham. The Arkwrights are contented, 
although still very poor, as I doubt not they 
will continue to be to the end of the chapter, 
unless, indeed, Jane makes a fortune by her 
pen. Have you eA'er heard, reader, of a little 
volume of poems entitled “Lotus Blossoms,” 
by J. A.? I fear not. They did not take the 
world by storm. And yet there is merit in 
them. Donald says so. Jane is very young 
still, and may do better. At all events, the ex- 
ercise of her art (which she pursues with all the 
earnestness that belongs to her character) makes 
her very happy. Money could not do more, and 
might likely do much less, for her. Two of her 
elder sisters are married, and the boy is doing 
well. 

Alice Dodd and her husband are extremely 
prosperous. They are childless, but make a 
point of spoiling all the bairns in the neighbor- 
hood, and so stuff them Avith good things that 
a visit to the Royal Oak is looked forAvard to 
as surpassing even Christmas-day in its oppor- 
tunities for getting indigestion in all the nurser- 
ies I am acquainted Avith. Dodd made a good 
deal of money by the sale of his fields to the 
Slate Quarry Company, Avhich Avas taken in 
hand by some moneyed people in London and 
the neighborhood. It Avorked successfully for 
some time, but then the slate suddenly and un- 
expectedly came to an end, and some people 
Avere losers, although not, I believe, to any seri- 
ous extent. Poor dear grandfather continued 
to prophesy up to the last that no good could 
come of it ; but he Avas Avrong. He Avas wrong 
— that is, if Avealth be a good ; for MattheAv 
Kitchen made large, profits out of the concern. 
He has become a really rich man. He and his 
Avife are not much liked in the neighborhood ; 
but that troubles them little. They are more 
pious than ever, and entertain all the traA'eling 
preachers of their sect Avith ostentatious hospi- 
tality. MattheAv looks very gloomy, and has 
groAvn prematurely old. They say his son is a 
trouble to him ; that he is selfish, reckless, and 
dissolute. And the gossips shake their heads, 
and say, “Ah ! Avait till the young felloAV comes 
into that property that has been scraped togeth- 
er so hardly. He av:11 make the money fly like 
chaff before the Avind.” 

Sir Peter Bunny has long been dead. His 
Avife survives, and lives Avith Barbara, Avho is 
the mistress of a pretty country mansion not far 
from my old home, and the mother of three 
blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked little girls, Avho are 


ANNE FURNESS. 


175 


so much like each other, and so near of an age, 
that I hardly can tell them apart, and all bear 
a striking resemblance to the Barbara Bunny 
of my. school-days. 

Sam Cudberry has never married. He and 
Henny live as old maid and old bachelor at 
Woolling, and quarrel and snarl all day long. 
They have both grown grasping and miserly, 
and I believe that is the only point on which 
they agree. I seldom see them ; but I am told 
that Sam often lounges down to Mr. Whiffles’s 
house, and smokes cigars at his brother-in-law’s 
expense, inveighing all the time against the 
, degradation to the family involved in Tilly’s 
marriage. But Mr. Whiffles does not heed this 
much. He has his wife in wonderful control, 
and has taught her to think him a very sensible 
man, with a very firm will of his own. Tilly, 
of course, is not gentle — that could never be ; 
but she is bustling and thrifty, does not waste 
her husband’s substance, and has accommodated 
herself to a lower sphere of life than she was 
used to — as she still boasts— at the Cudberrys’. 
Her one weak point seems to be her unrequited 
tenderness and indulgence for her brother Sam. 
She connives at his appropriating her husband’s 
cigars, drinking her husband’s wine, and riding 
her husband’s horses free of cost ; for all of 
w'hich he repays her with insolent ingratitude. 
But then, as Tilly says, “ Sam is such a Cudber- 
ry ! He has the family spirit, if ever any one 
bad!” And in this she takes a pride in some 
inscrutable way. 

Clementina is quite spoiled by overindul- 
gence. Her health has been rather delicate, 
and her mother-in-law pets her and nurses her 


all day long. It seems strange to me to think 
of, with my remembrance of that awful Mrs. 
Hodgekinson who w'as so implacably severe at 
the Woolling ball, long, long ago. 

Yesterday my eldest ehild came to me with 
a book in her hand. She had found it hidden 
away at the bottom of a chest in a garret where 
all sorts of lumber is piled. Lucy — that is the 
little girl’s name — is an insatiable devourer of 
books. And Avhat should this turn out to be 
but my own old, thumbed, well-beloved copy 
of “Robinson Crusoe!” I told Donald of it 
Avhen he came home in the evening, and showed 
him the dear old volume. We went into the 
garden after the little ones were in bed, and 
picked out all the old scenes of our childish 
plays together. They Avere little changed. We 
neither of us desired to make many alterations 
in the dear Mortlands garden. 

“ Those AA’ere happy times, Anne,” said Don- 
ald, holding my hand in his, and contemplating 
the spot AA^here Ave had discovered the north 
pole. 

“They Avere happy times, dear; but these 
are happier.” 

“Are they so, my OAvn AA’ife?” 

“Yes, dearest.” 

“And yet troubles come noAV. I would I 
could shield you from any sorroAv. And in 
truth our cares are slight and feAv; but still 
troubles Avill come, even to my Anne.” 

“There is but one trouble that can ever have 
poAver to hurt me as past troubles have hurt; 
and may God avert it ! There is no care I can 
not defy, no sorroAV that can blot all the sun- 
shine from my life — so long as I have you !” 


THE END. 


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